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?
