Today marks three years since I lost my mother, and in her memory, I find myself reflecting on the nature of time. While most people might glide through their days without a thought about time passing, mothers are acutely aware of every fleeting moment.
We notice it in subtle ways. Take, for instance, when we look at our high schoolers and are suddenly struck by how they’ve transformed—those once-small legs now show traces of hair and growth. Even though we’ve seen them countless times, it still makes our hearts skip a beat.
Time becomes even more apparent when our teenagers start sporting sideburns and facial hair. One day, it’s just there, and we wonder how we missed that transition. Our focus had been on their changing voices, and suddenly, they’ve grown up right before our eyes.
As summer days begin to shorten, we feel the weight of time again when our college kids start gathering their belongings for the new school year. It’s hard to believe they’re heading back already! We’ve watched them whirl through the summer, full of energy, only to vanish once more.
Moms often find themselves reflecting on time when our oldest children, who are becoming adults, start making their own choices—sometimes without our advice. Watching them stumble and learn can make time feel like it’s standing still (cue the nervous laughter from parents of young adults).
This past weekend, a group of friends and I took a ferry to a beautiful seaside town and enjoyed a perfect summer day. Yet, I couldn’t shake a sense of melancholy; it dawned on me that the last time we all gathered like this was exactly three years ago. That day was special—it was the last moment of joy I experienced before my mother’s cancer took a turn for the worse.
I used to call her on weekends to share stories about my kids, my latest shopping finds, or adventures with friends. She would always turn down the TV volume and listen attentively, delighted by the updates about her beloved grandchildren.
That last phone call is etched in my memory. For the first time, she wasn’t able to keep up her side of the conversation. Her frail voice and whispers filled me with dread. I hung up, tears streaming down my face, knowing that our special chats would never happen again. Just days later, I was back in New York by her side, witnessing the end of her painful journey.
156 weeks have flown by, yet I still find myself acutely aware of time at the most unexpected moments. My family dynamic has shifted dramatically in these three years. Now surrounded by teenagers and young adults, my home feels lonelier at times. It’s not a place of sadness—far from it! It’s bustling with energy, laughter, and the usual chaos of a family of six. But as Dorothy Gale once said, “People come and go so quickly around here.” In our busy lives, family dinners have become rare, and it often feels like there are never six of us under one roof.
It’s these moments of solitude that remind me of the transient nature of time. I’ve learned to appreciate simple pleasures: car rides, conversations, and quiet days with few plans. I even find joy in the sneaky thrill of frying bacon to rouse my sleepy teenagers on weekends.
I’ve vowed that if I ever receive a call from one of my loved ones who are far away, I will turn down the volume of my show and truly listen—just as my mom did for me.
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In summary, three years may seem like a long time, but it’s filled with memories, growth, and poignant reminders of the fleeting nature of life.