One of my closest friends lost her father on the day before Easter. This seems to be happening more and more around me. I am at the age where time with my parents has become something I am grateful for. I still have mine, this set at least. My father died when I was thirteen, but the new one mom picked out has weathered the storms of our adolescence, getting licenses, borrowing the car, going away to college, bringing home women...well, I did, my brother...not so much, and then some.
My mom still won't tell me who my mother was before her. She insists she's the only mother I've ever had, but I'm not completely convinced yet.
I was away from my family for twenty five years. I visited of course, but didn't live nearby. Seeing them only a few times a year was good in ways, and probably best at times, but now I'm here, and I see them several times a week. At the moment I'm remodeling (building a kitchen in a room that was the sun porch a few months ago) her kitchen, so I see her almost everyday. I love my mom, but there is a limit to how many heaping helpings of mom I can take in given time period. We are exceeding that currently.
The news of this recent death, brings into sharp focus the fact that I should be enjoying this time with my mother, and this project we are doing together. We are making the memories I will be keeping with me when she has gone. Sometimes we need to get a dose of the bad, to realize we are actually in the good part.