93

My mother and hers, around 1930

Last Friday would have been my mother’s 93^rd birthday. Not a milestone, like a birthday that ends in 0 or 5. Just one more June 21^st. 

Mother always said that being born on the longest day of summer meant she got to celebrate longer than anyone else. She loved birthdays. And birthday gifts. They didn’t have to be fancy or elaborated. Or even appropriate.

Mother, ca. 1948

I still remember the first birthday gift I bought for her with my own money. I saved my allowance for weeks, and when the time came, my brother helped me sneak around behind her in the Piggly Wiggly. I bought her a pitcher. Not sure why; I just thought it was pretty, all clear, with flowers painted on the glass. Also, the Piggly Wiggly had a limited supply of possible birthday gifts for moms.

My mother and hers, around 1980

She kept that pitcher until the paint wore off. And then some.

Toward the end of her life, when Mother didn’t need or want anything, I sent cards and flowers, made calls, tried to visit. Anything to remember her “longest day to celebrate.”

Spa day at her church, 2006

After all, she didn’t keep that pitcher because she liked the pitcher.

Mother would not, however, have mentioned it if my brother or I had forgotten her birthday. That was not her style. Instead, she tried to instill in both of us the short, temporary nature of life. No one is going to be in our life forever. People leave. People die. And she knew that all too well. She lost her best friend in a car crash when I was 7. And more than 25 years after my grandmother’s death, Mother would sometimes murmur about missing her. I suspect, if I live that long, I’ll do the same.