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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