The other day, the reason hit me like a ton of bricks: It's my magical year.
I am 44. My mother died when she was 44. To know that when she was my age, this was it for her has thrown me for a loop.
When she was my age, there were no more chapters. No more adventures. No more lessons to learn. She had two young daughters, one who was the same age as my sweet girls (9). There would be no guidance, support, laughter, giggles, mother-daughter fights, love, travels, shared books. There would be nothing.
She was just getting to know my sister and me as people. We were all getting to the fun part. Then, all of a sudden, it just ended.
I don't want it to end for me. I want to keep going and going. There's so much to do and see and discover. Alone, with my girls, with my husband and with my family.
I can't imagine it just being over. Life. No more.
Will I feel this burden until my birthday in April? This heaviness in my stomach? This uneasiness in my bones? Darkness in my heart?
I can't help but wonder ... will I make it?
