At Seventy

When I first noticed her aging hands that started to sag and wrinkle, my first thought was “Oh Mama is getting old.” And my mind wandered to thoughts like how she would look at seventy, if she would still be able to walk on her own, and on how I would be able to take care of her when I will live far away.

I got scared. Of her getting old. And starting that day, I gave her more time. I tried to understand her more. I tried to make her do the things that she wanted to do. If she wanted me to drive, I drove. If she wanted me to cook, I cooked. If she wanted me to take care of things, I took care of things.

Because seeing that first sign of old age on her was a scary feeling. It was like time is running out on me to be with her.

I thought I still had twenty years with her. And even with that thought, I still got scared of losing her.

And then she died. Unexpectedly.

I was not given the chance to be scared of what if’s. But I felt such an incredible amount of pain when I realized that she was going to die. It was so immense that tears did not even fall as much as I expected, as much as I wanted.

And then I got scared. For myself. Because I was supposed to cry, to help lessen the pain. But I couldn’t.

She died. And I cannot even see how she would like at seventy.

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Wonderful Days

I made this blog because I miss writing.  One boring day, I was browsing through websites and blogs that I have been following and realized that I miss reading personal stories.  Nowadays, all I read are sponsored posts and shallow thoughts.  I do not blame the writers.  It is hard to put your thoughts out there.  Nowadays, people hide behind their online persona and bash to the point that it discourages writers to be honest about their ideas and feelings.  But I am not famous nor have I more than 10 followers so it is still safe for me to write.  It is still safe for me to be myself.

My mother died.  Three saddest words to write.  To let go.  Three hardest words to do.  How can I still write about wonderful days and my wandering days when all I can think about is she is no longer here to encourage me, to laugh with me, to chastise me, and to love me?

But that is how life is, I guess.  I have to continue writing.  I have to look for the wonder in my days.  I have to look for reasons to wander.  I have to continue living well because this is what my mother would have wanted.

I’ll be okay.  Three hopeful words.  Three words I will try to always remember.