My mom is 92 years old, and if I’m honest, it’s hard for me to picture a world without her in it.
When she found out she was pregnant with me, the doctor told her she would enjoy having a baby later in life. I think he was right. She loved me fiercely from the very beginning, even though I spent most of my childhood proving I wasn’t going to stay on the short leash she had planned for me.
Over the years, she became my favorite adventure partner. We could turn something as simple as shopping for coffee cups or decorating a room into a day full of laughter. And Lord, did we laugh. The kind of laughing that left tears running down our faces. Daddy would come into the room after trying to sleep and say, “You girls need to settle it down,” and we’d laugh even harder.
My mom has loved her family with her whole heart. She loved my daddy. She loved me. She loved my children and grandchildren. Not because she had to, but because loving her family was as natural as breathing to her. No matter what was happening in life, I always knew she was in my corner.
Now I watch the woman who once seemed larger than life grow tired. Her body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. Her mind gets weary. And sometimes I look at her and think part of her heart has already started looking toward Heaven, where Daddy is waiting. I understand that. But I don’t like it.
Because no matter how old I am, I’m still her daughter. I’m still the girl who calls her mom. I’m still the girl who wants one more story, one more laugh, one more shopping trip, one more ordinary afternoon together.
I know the day is coming when I’ll have to let her go. But today is not that day. Today I’ll hold her hand a little longer, listen a little closer, and love her a little harder. And when the time finally comes, I won’t be grateful for losing her. I’ll be grateful for having her.
For 92 years, the world has been blessed with my mom. And for my entire life, I’ve been blessed that she was mine.
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