My mom, Rose Mossa, turned 91 years old this past November. I turned 61 in December. We were born 30 years apart. Sometimes I forget how old I am, but I always remember her birthdate, and I just subtract 30 years to remember mine. I've been lucky to have a mother in my life all these years. Some of you may have already lost your moms. Rosie is a tough cookie. She's had an adversarial relationship with her life. She's known great joy, too. She's watched her two children bring children into the world. She's attended two grandchildren's weddings, and she's been in the joyful company of her first great grandchild, aptly named Grace. She's buried her husband, her one-and-only, her soulmate, her greatest heartache.
My mom may make a full and solid recovery from a fall in her home a few days ago. She may not. I'm not delusional. She's in ICU as I pen this. Providing she leaves this hospital in a day or two, she will spend weeks in a rehab facility learning to walk with the rod and pin in her left leg. She may return to her humble home here in Connecticut. She may not. I looked around her home last night and I recognized objects that, while meaningful to her, will hold no sway over me or the rest of her family. A window ledge lined with milk glass. Soaps, wall hangings, souvenirs, from many moons ago when I was lost in my own fantasy world. A bowl of beach glass. Dried flowers tied with faded ribbons. Photographs of my father that must have sustained her, preserved his memory since his passing in 2004, Objects that have followed her throughout her married life, childrearing, and widowhood. They say we see our lives pass before our eyes when we depart this world. I wonder if it's the same experience for the ones left behind.
Life is short. You hear it often. Occupy that idea fully, folks. Let the knowledge that your time on Earth is limited permeate your consciousness. Let it awaken, not frighten, you. Let it guide you, move you to pick up the phone, pen, brush, lens, whatever makes your heart sing. Please, do it today. Don't wait for tomorrow.
Smile. Rejoice. Love. Live your life with all the fervor, zest, and joy you have. Do it for your mother, for yourself, for the rest of us. Make sure your legacy is one of love.
