Hold the Fairy Dust

On the day she died my mother told me getting old was not so good. Perhaps her answer was not as sassy as Betty Davis' getting old is not for sissies, but it was honest. Don't get me wrong, she was not sitting in the rocking chair waiting for the grim reaper to knock on her door. That Last Day, as I like to call it, included going out to lunch, getting a manicure, and spending the night at a Bed and Breakfast Inn. Except she died shortly after I tucked her in for the night.

I planned an impromptu visit during the holidays. I called my mother two days before I was to arrive. She was thrilled; she was always game for a new adventure. My youngest son, 14 at the time, went with me. I remember watching him hold her arm as they navigated their way across an icy parking lot. I watched from behind. He's growing up and she's growing old.

There's something so magical about the cycle of life. We're often moving so fast we don't stop to observe it. As my son opened the restaurant door and they vanished from sight, I realized they were both moving away from me. But that's the way life is.