Today would have been my Mom’s birthday. She would have been ninety two years old—which, no matter how you figure it, is old.

I often wonder what she would have been like as a really old lady. I’m pretty sure she would have been as feisty and sarcastic as she was in her younger years—and under it all, still a big softie.

I’m sure she would have been delighted with her grandchildren and now, great grandchildren. She would have taken pride in the accomplishments of the grandchildren and her own children.

I am sure she would have been exasperated with the political gridlock in Washington and I can imagine her expressing her opinions quite readily.

I am six years older than Mom was when she died from cancer.  That thought is sobering for me. By the time she died, the disease had taken a terrible toll and her death was sad and painful, but the comfort was that her earthly suffering was over. Now that I am older than Mom was when she died, I understand better how awful it was to lose her then. ( The picture with this post was taken two weeks before she died.)

Like everyone who has lost a loved one, I have many memories of my Mom.

One memory that I cherish is of her reading to me all by myself when I was around 4 or 5 years old. I can still picture the book and hear her voice as she read from a beautifully illustrated Nursery Rhyme book while I cuddled next to her. What was most remarkable to me was that she read this book to only me—even though, by that point, there were 4 children in the family and another one on the way.

My Mom encouraged all of us to explore our talents and interests. She was an intelligent and intellectually curious woman.

And even all these years after her death, I still miss her and love her.

Joanne Poth Joyce