Today she would have celebrated her 85th birthday. When I last saw her, the morning of her death, she said her goal was to live until her birthday. She died that night, thirty-three days short of her goal.
So, happy birthday, Mom. If you were still living, I would call you, sing “Happy, happy birthday, it’s your special day,” to you, and tell you all about my week. I would tell you about the movie I saw on Saturday, the kids’ basketball games, and how my pup did at Doggy School yesterday. I would tell you about my dental hygienist saying what good teeth I have, and how someone taught me well how to take care of them. I would talk about my blogs. I would tell you how much I like wearing your green corduroy jacket, and how Dad is coming to visit me in April or May. I would say how it is warm here for this time of year, and some forsythia is blooming and some trees have already flowered, and my new art class begins on Thursday night. I would ask how you were doing, and listen to you tell me about the nurses, my aunt and cousins, and your bowling friend.
We were shocked to get the call that night that she was gone. Mom usually accomplished what she set her mind to do. When she said something, we believed her. And why wouldn’t we? She was Mom.