Holy Crap. Mom’s 80!
That was my daughter’s planned heading for the invitation to my St. Patrick’s Day birthday celebration. She also had planned that I would make lasagna to serve the guests so she could say, “This is how Italians celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.” (I am only half Italian but that’s okay; I do make pretty good lasagna.) In the end, we decided to skip the whole idea because many of the probable invitees would also that weekend, with us, be honoring the memory of someone else’s mother who recently died in her eighties . The event for me seemed suddenly more inappropriate even than that heading.
These days my thoughts are, probably not surprisingly, centered on the swiftness of time’s passage, along of course with many memories and sadness for those who have already gone.
Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was counting the days to the birthday on which I would be eligible for my driving test? I went that very day, aced the test in someone else’s car, and went home to hit up my father for his car keys. I still remember the exhilaration of that first solo drive. And now I’ve just experienced my first use of the ride-sharing app my daughter installed on my phone. Time moves along. Now, all of us of a certain age live in terror of the day they’ll think it’s best to take away our cars altogether. How did we get here?
I’m not complaining. I realize how fortunate we are — we of what was called America’s Silent Generation — to have lasted so long. In my case, it’s longer than either of my parents. And that thought ushers in more melancholy ones. Like what did I do with all that extra time I was given? Write great literature? Solve world peace?
Okay, enough. This can only get more morose. Somebody better give me a mug of green beer – quick!