As of today, I have lived longer than my mother did. From now on, I will be older than she ever was.
The math checks out, but emotionally it’s impossible. Mom was a responsible grown-up adult! A bedrock wellspring of wisdom and wit! Meanwhile, I’m still pretending I know what I’m doing and making it up as I go.
Psychologists have studied the milestone. In lineages with genetic traits—I know a family in which nearly every male had a heart attack around age 60—surpassing a parent’s age can feel like cheating death or living on borrowed time. It can change your approach to risk-taking and life itself.
My family doesn’t fit that sort of pattern, so my reaction's different. I feel more like an ancient mariner who has sailed off the edge of the map. Until today, Mom’s life always provided a subconscious polestar. Even when our courses diverged, I always knew where hers was, and measured my distance and direction against it. Now I navigate uncharted waters. “Here there be dragons!”
I wish Mom had had more time. She missed much in the past couple of decades, and now that I’m the age she was when she died, I know she wasn’t any more ready to go than I am. That makes the milestone a melancholy one.
But she prepared me well. It’s my turn to set course and sail, still making it up as I go. Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning.
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