Today is my 50th birthday.
My mom died six months ago, almost to the day.
Our dog Lily was hit by a car and died six weeks ago.
I still find myself thinking I should tell my mom things. It’s not always a good feeling; more often than not, it’s something I feel like I need to confess. For years I confessed everything--every bad thought, every misbehavior--to my mom. When Lily died, I wanted to talk to my mom, to tell her it was my fault (because I let her go outside in a storm and got in my car and drove away, and she got panicked and disoriented and ran far from our house, probably after me, onto a very busy street). Only my mom could tell me it was okay, not to blame myself, and she wasn’t there to do it.
By 50, it seems like you should know things, but I keep being surprised by how little I really know. I guess this is a confession of sorts too--of my age, and my confusion--but also a remembrance of those I’m missing today.
