The passage of time

I’ve been thinking about the passage of time a lot, lately…

About how I see my mom more and more when I look in the mirror – particularly when I’m not wearing make-up or when I catch myself unawares. There’s a visceral recognition… and then I realize I’m not recognizing myself, but my mom. My arms have started resembling hers: the skin getting softer, a little crepey. My hands are her hands.

In sharp contrast to the Hollywood stars trying to stretch the inevitable passage of time from their skins, though, I find a weird and lovely comfort in it. I’m so familiar with this lovely aging face: it’s one of my favourites and I’m pretty sure it will just resemble my mom more and more as I get older.

At the same time, my daughter – just two years old when my mom died – has started resembling her too. I have a double recognition of the baby I loved and the old lady I loved coming together in this big girl I love. It’s uncanny, and beautiful.

And to add another layer of complexity and bittersweetness and poignancy, I remember being an 8-year-old girl, quite viscerally. I know the days of my daughter taking my hand as we cross the street are limited (already it’s not a given).

So much love. So much beauty. And what a surprise to find that those we love who have died don’t only live on in our memories but in our flesh.

Grief, hey… what a journey.