Today marks three years since I lost my mom, and each anniversary prompts me to reflect on the nature of time. While most people might not notice the hours tick by, moms definitely do.
We’re acutely aware of the passage of time when we glance down at our eighth graders and see those hairy legs—every time it catches us off guard. We notice when our tenth graders sprout sideburns, leaving us wondering when that happened. One moment they’re just kids, and the next, they’re growing up right before our eyes. We find ourselves caught up in the realization of change, often focusing so intently on those deepening voices that we miss the signs until they’re suddenly upon us.
As summer days wane, we’re reminded of time’s fleeting nature when our college kids start packing up their lives again. Didn’t they just get home? Watching them whirl around, burning the candle at both ends, is a mirror of our own youthful escapades, and then, just like that—poof—they’re off again.
Moms also feel time slow down when our older children, who are on the brink of adulthood, start forging their own paths. It’s a bittersweet experience watching them make mistakes and learn from them—it can feel like time stalls for a brief moment, provoking nervous laughter among parents of young adults.
This past weekend, a group of friends and I took a ferry to Provincetown, reveling in a glorious summer day. Yet, a tinge of sadness lingered as I realized that the last time we enjoyed such a day together was three years ago; it’s etched in my mind as the last fun I had before my mom’s cancer took a dark turn.
I used to call her on weekends, sharing tales of the kids’ games or my latest shopping finds, or simply enjoying a glass of wine while we chatted. She would always lower the volume of her favorite shows to listen to my animated updates about her beloved grandkids. That last ferry trip was unforgettable; when I called her that evening, she was unable to keep up our usual banter. I remember hanging up, tears streaming down my face, realizing how much she was fading away. Our chats would never be the same, and within days, I was back in New York, not leaving her side until the end of her battle.
Now, over 156 weeks have passed, and I still find my awareness of time flaring unexpectedly. My family dynamic has shifted dramatically since then. Our household, now filled with teenagers and young adults, feels lonelier despite the laughter and chaos that fills our days. As Dorothy Gale wisely noted, “People come and go so quickly around here.” With everyone so busy—between work, college, and social commitments—family dinners have become a rarity, and seldom do all six of us gather under one roof.
Sometimes, this hectic pace leads to feelings of loneliness when I reflect on the swift passage of time. It prompts me to cherish the little things: car rides, conversations, and calendar pages with fewer notes. I’ve even become a bit mischievous, frying bacon just to rouse my teenage boys from their weekend slumbers. These small moments are precious, and they motivate me to promise that if I ever get a call from a loved one far away, I’ll turn down the volume on whatever’s playing and give them my full attention—just as my mom always did.
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Summary:
Three years have passed since my mom’s passing, and the reflections on time remind me of how quickly life changes. As my family grows and evolves, I find moments of solitude amidst the chaos, compelling me to appreciate the small joys and connections we share.
Keyphrase: “the passage of time”
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