47.

On most days I reminisce about my mother.

But on birthdays and holidays, her death sticks out a little louder. It’s inevitable.

Today would have been her 47th birthday. Wow, mom. You’re getting old. I would have said over a slice of pie or a tin of cheesecake. And I’m certain she would have wrinkles around her eyes where they lit up every time she smiled or laughed. They would have been doubled by now. Her eyes, a dreamy green. And her smile, everlasting.

I would have bought her a new pair of pajamas to replace the one’s from the year before. It would have been a tradition. Because more often than not, she would be at home snuggling up next to a heater with some kind of patterned pajamas to stay cozy. And we’d most likely sing her Happy Birthday outrageously loud and purposefully off tune. And she’d insist we go for a walk through the nature park and have a picnic near the water. I imagine it would have been a beautiful sunny day.

And of course. We would have spent most of the day finding a simple way to serve somebody. Even on her birthday she would have thought of anybody but herself.

Maybe we’d break out the karaoke machine and sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” or “Wind Beneath my Wings.” And we’d laugh until we peed our pants. And at the end of the day she’d want a bath and I’d naturally wash her back for her as we’d philosophically talk about life.

It’s the simple things we cherish the most. And my mother taught me that by example. For that I am eternally grateful, because without that knowledge…I might just let life pass me by without genuinely enjoying all the little things that we easily can miss.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I sure miss you.

 

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