What went wrong in my mind that it took from 1968 to now to discover how old my mother was when she died? Her death, by suicide, occurred when I was 17. I am not up to going back there tonight, as it may as well have been yesterday still.
All the years I've gone to her grave site, left the flowers and occasional notes I "never" read the year of her birth. I told people in the past that she died at 42, and so did Elvis. Quite a few people I knew or were celebrities died at 42. Just like my mom. Or so I thought.
I just sat with her at the cemetery and began to brush off the headstone like I always did when for the first time I "really" saw the year of her birth: 1923. She died in 1968. She was 45 when she died. It may sound trivial to you but to me, I feel I horribly disrespected her. How could I possibly have gone to visit her so many times in the past, cleaned the headstone, placed the flowers, cried the tears and not have ever seen the year until now? I believe in life after death with all my heart and with that same heart I know it doesn't matter to her. That she loved, loves and will always love me as her daughter that broke the day she died. She paid it no mind the day I first got it wrong. I should be so kind to myself.
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