Grief Grows Up With You (Ep. 138)

Today I'm going to pull my chair up close to yours. The way you would connect with a friend who came over to you, knowing that she's going to stay there for a while.

Because I want to tell you something true about myself and I have a feeling that by the end, you're going to find it true about you, too.

Let me tell you what that math was.

My mom was 46 years old when she died, I was 19. In a few days, I will turn 46 myself.

And then I keep going.

I have another birthday and another one after that. I become older than my mother ever got to be. I walk right past her and she stays exactly where she was.

Forty six.

Forever.

There is something strange about outliving the person who gave you your life. In my memory, she never ages. She is permanently the age I am about to be.

And I'm the one who keeps moving. Carrying her forward into the years she never got to see for herself.

It's the strangest, most tender math there is.

You just feel your way through it one day at a time.