There have been a lot of celebrity deaths lately: Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Karl Mauldin – I’ll even include Billy May. Many accolades are being written and spoken for them. The fact that we know who they are means they impacted our lives – at least a little. I do not begrudge them either their fame or the attention given to their passing.
Then I look at my mother. She will be 93 next week.
Think of that – ninety three.
Just as celebrities die, so too will my mother die. Like most people, she is not a celebrity. Millions will not mourn her passing. There will be a small story in the obituaries and a small gathering when she rejoins the earth.
And that too is fine.
Mom made close friends in many places: up-state New York, Massachusetts, Hialeah, and Port St. Lucie. She didn’t live here in Texas long enough to make friends – she only lived in her little house for six months before she fell, broke her hip, and was hospitalized. Her dementia has prevented her from making any new relationships.
All those years – all those people Mom knew and worked with and cared for and prayed for and worried about and laughed with and shared meals with. All those people she loved and loved her. All those people she shared life with.
Unlike the celebrities, she will die alone.