The last time I devoted a column to my mother was back in January 2016, a few short days before she passed away at 92. At the time of that column (archived here https://hjfree.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-legacy-of-love.html), my mom was lying in a hospital bed after surgery to repair a broken leg suffered while living independently and alone on New Year’s Eve. While the surgery was successful, metabolically my mother’s body could not tolerate the pain medications and rigorous toll that hospitalization had on her body.
Unless we’ve been diligent and forward-thinking, much of our shared history dies when a parent dies. When my father predeceased my mother by twelve years in 2004, I should have (how I wish I had), gathered up all my questions and spent more time interviewing (ok, not interviewing, but querying) my mom about her younger years and our family’s history. With both my parents and all of their siblings now gone, the only family of origin left to speak of (and to) is my brother and a few distant (in more ways than one) cousins .
I passed by a mirror the other day, and I was surprised to see my mother’s face looking back at me. I inherited my mom's shockingly white hair, and though she wore hers cropped and continually begged me to do the same, mine is shoulder length. On this particular day, I had my hair swept back in a high ponytail, and the resemblance was uncanny and dreamlike.
I won't say it was unpleasant to be reminded that I am my mother's 68-year-old daughter, but it was a humbling reminder that I am now the elder. My brother and I are now the last line of defense, the final hedge between our kids and the great beyond.
I hope my three adult children get around to asking me questions.
