As I become more like her in some ways, and still very different in others, I miss her more. I wish we could have been contemporaries as older women, to share stories of life, relationships, grandkids; to talk about TV shows and books and what yarn projects we are working on; to reminisce about old times. And to laugh - like the time we tried to cram a huge springy slab of foam rubber (for a chair repair) into the back of my very small car and cracked up, calling each other Ethel and Lucy, as the farce unfolded.
There were times we didn't relate at all, but I think that was mostly due to my teen and young adult growing pains and her confusion, exasperation, and likely sadness that her sweet little girl was giving her fits.
I'm glad she moved to be near me after my dad died. We had a few good years then, with our Thursday morning breakfast and shopping dates, and family times together, even though I was in the "busy" kid- raising, working-outside-the-home time of life. She knew only a few other people here. I bet she was lonely in spite of my attempts to be attentive. And then dementia stole her from me.
I wish we could be here together now. But the lesson is that we don't get any do-overs, nor do we have a Time Machine. She didn't get to wait for me, nor did I get to grow old with her. That's not how it works. And I miss her.
At least that's the view from here...©
Love you, Mom. ❤️
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