My older cousin, once my roommate from freshman to junior year of college, sent my brother and me a photo. She’s standing between our mothers’ graves—her mom and mine. It’s a wet, gray day, and she’s placed small bouquets in upturned cups on each headstone. I pinch my phone screen to zoom in. My mom’s bouquet has a large yellow flower, while her mom’s does not.
Did my dad bring those flowers?
A pang hits my chest at the thought of him still holding space in his heart for her. It’s been 27 years. He’s been married to Paula longer than he was to my mom. I know their companionship, their care for each other. But still—why wouldn’t he?
Savanah texts me, saying her mom loved lighthouses. She hoped it would go well with my mom’s ocean scene, the setting sun on her headstone. I tell her that’s exactly what I noticed—how perfectly they complement each other. She says that that makes her so happy as happy as she can be on the six-month anniversary of her mom’s passing.
Her mom was so incredibly sweet. I have just two clear memories of us alone together—one in a hot tub, another at a Tom Petty concert. Just the two of us. The usual dynamic of her being older, the adult, was gone. Instead, she talked to me as an equal, like a trusted confidant. In those moments, in our hushed secrets and laughter, it felt like a gift.
To be seen. To have a door unlocked.
I subtract 2024 from her birth year. Sixty-nine. Too young. But then, a conflicting thought surfaces.
Earlier today, I imagined reassuring my dad in a make-believe conversation about my own mortality. In the fantasy, I tell him it’s my time. We don’t get to pick. No matter how we feel or how unfair it seems, it’s just the hand we’re dealt. And there’s nothing we can do about it.
That thought—the reality of no guarantees—makes me want to squirm out of my spot on this bed. Makes me want to distract myself by tracking a package.
That was the biggest lesson my mom’s death taught me.
Sixteen-year-old me believed in forever. The white picket fence. The blurred gray future where anything was possible. Then, her death flipped the premise of life upside down.
What does this mean?
It means anything can happen.
Sometimes, when I panic over lifestyle decisions—like Dave and me choosing to prioritize family and time together over work and money—it’s because I forget. I fall back into the shoulds. Should we be focusing on amassing money for an unwritten future? Should we be doing more? But we’re not. Because today really matters.
It matters so much that I do everything I can to fight against the urge to take a nap. Not that a nap wouldn’t have been nice. But instead, I lose myself in a book. A masterpiece. It pulls me in so deeply that I flip to the author’s bio, read every word, and think—
You are incredible.
And I’m so grateful he shared his craft.
Because what else is there, really, but to create, to connect, and to leave something behind that reminds others they’re not alone?
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 