Fifty-one.

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.