Last Friday was my half birthday. I am probably too old for half birthdays but there you go.
But it means something. There is only 6 months until I’m 27. My scary age. Generally aging doesn’t frighten me. I’m not one to shy away from telling people my age or feeling self conscious about it.
It’s not the aging that makes it a scary age. It’s who didn’t make it past 27 that makes it so damn terrifying.
You see, my mum was 27 when she died. Leaving her 3 babies and her partner and family behind.
It was always so far off before. So distant. But not any more. It’s creeping at me at a rate of knots. I had night terrors about it from the day I turned 26 for about 3 months.
It’s not logical, I know. But life is a fickle thing.
Have I done enough? Did I leave a positive mark?
I am looking forward to tomorrow and many tomorrows after that. But she is gone and it hurts a little more this year than most.
She had her flaws, like all humans do. But she was (and is) my mum. We missed out on a lot together, and that’s what makes me sad.
But I make my grand plans to live a more adventurous life in the hope that my 27 will have a happier outcome than hers did.
I know she’s looking out for us. I feel it. Just like the time something told me not to turn on the green arrow and a car came past seconds later at 100km through the red light. Or when I’m about to make a scary decision and something tells me to go for it.
I’m not asking you to understand or even believe.
It is what it is. All I can think as tears run down my cheeks is: hug your loved ones tight and live the best life you can.