Fifty-one.
After two
marriages of my own (one early and brief and one later and much longer), I have
arrived at the age at which my Mother was widowed. At the time, I was sixteen and losing my
Father was a heartbreak that remains matchless in its intensity. Being single at the same age which she was a
new widow, literally being on her own for the first time (my Mother, as did
many women in that era, married and left the comfort of her parent’s house,
going straight to housekeeping with her new husband), has given me pause to
think about how it affected her. I lost
my Mother almost three years ago, so I can’t ask her what it was like to have
her world turned upside down in a split second.
I’m not sure, even if she were alive, that she could have answered my
question – she was not given to talking about such things. Ever.
Growing up, the one thing we didn’t do was talk about the important
things – the “ostrich syndrome”, as I call it.
Don’t talk about the bad, hard, emotional things and they don’t
exist. My daughter is like her Nanny, in
that way. I, however, will tell my life
story to anyone who asks. Or even if
they don’t ask, sometimes.
I was without a Father and on the verge of long-awaited
independence, and she was bereft of the husband and partner she had relied on
for 22 years, living in a state of unwanted independence. Consequently, my Mother and I grew up
together. We both learned to drive a
car, balance a checkbook, fix a broken furnace, and navigate the uncharted
waters of our new lives. She persevered,
and began to carve out a life for herself that she enjoyed. Mom relished her newfound independence until
her death at age 83, and never took anything for granted. She never remarried, but she always enjoyed
the company of her church family, her friends, and neighbors. She loved to have lunch with the other ladies who retired from the same company she had
worked for, and catch up on the gossip. She
drove to visit her brother and his wife regularly. She got to spend time with her only
granddaughter and three great-grandchildren, and the pictures I have of them
are priceless to me now.
It’s hard for me to imagine how difficult it must have been
for Mom at this age, because I am in a very different place at 51 – living on
my own for the last 5 and a half years has taught me well. I have had life experiences that she never got
the opportunity to have. I can’t compare
my life and hers at the same age – times, and people, are very different now,
35 years later. But, like her, I don’t take any second for
granted, and I am grateful for every experience and everyone who has
accompanied me on the journey this far. I am proud to walk in my Mother’s
footsteps.
