For no particular reason, I was thinking of my last outing with Mom.
It was the Thursday before she died; she died the very next Thursday.
She had wanted to go out to breakfast with my girls, but they were at camp that week. I told her we’d bring her to their favorite spot the next week, but she asked if I’d bring her that day so she could tell them how much she liked it. (She did like it.)
Today, for the first time, it occurred to me that she knew she was dying; she knew she would not make it to the next week.
I spent this morning reliving that morning. I could feel her lean into me as we walked across the parking lot. I could hear her voice as she asked about the girls’ camp and their summer and their lives. My heart skipped again as I saw her stumble. My skin tingled with her love.
When did my mother know those were her last days?
What would I do if I knew these were mine?
What if I could honestly take each day as the only guarantee?
Would I give a memory worth remembering?