She would have been 84 today. She would have awakened begrudgingly because Dad would have been rummaging through the top drawer of his tall-boy dresser for a hankie, and rather than hold the brass pulls until he closed the drawer quietly, he would have let the pulls drop and jingle. She would have lifted her head from the pillow, given him the look she had been giving him for more than fifty years –the look of a loving tolerance and incredulity since he never learned that his idea of quiet and hers were two totally different things – and then he would have gone to her side, kissed her, and whispered, “Love you, Don. See you later.”

See you later. We say it all the time. As we walk out the door and go off to work or school, the chorus is always the same. See you later. When we meet up with a friend whom we know (but we really don’t know) we may see soon, the standard farewell rolls off the tongue. See you later. As often as we say it, glibly, matter-of-factly, and without any thought to what comes next, we assume later will definitely be our meeting place. At some point, though, later never comes. Later becomes “what if” and “I should have said” more often than we ever care to imagine. Never is later.

Almost a half of a year into my sixth decade, and now fourteen years without the daily wisdom Mom shared with me in both little and small ways (alternating between an implicit and  purposeful pedagogy of sorts that only a mother masters), I believe that we never learn our lessons. Never. And I definitely do not believe that we will learn this particular lesson later. Time waits for no one as the saying goes; and yet, with reckless disregard for both the passage of time and life’s promise of mortality, we wait for, hope for, and count on later. When do we decide –when do I decide -–not to count on later? Never. The lesson we have all learned after losing anything or anyone who matters to us is that this is all there is. There is no later. There is no do-over. And yet, here we are with unrelenting hubris thinking that we are so special, such good people, that we will be chosen to have that special time we refer to as later. 

Never is the only thing that comes later. I guarantee it.  I know it. I’ve been waiting fourteen years, fourteen years worth of birthdays, holidays, special occasions, sunsets and sunrises, to get back time and say all the things I didn’t say to her.   Later never comes. Later is too late.

Have I learned? Perhaps. Will I remember the lesson? Will I remember the lesson that her birthday, every Mother’s Day, and the anniversary of her death teach me each year? There is no later. Never is later. Say it now.

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Dear Mom,

For fourteen years, I have promised you that I would try to live my best life. I have tried, but I can do better. I promise that I’ll begin. I’ve been putting it off ’til later. Later is not coming; and I fear never is right around the corner.

Love you and miss you. Always.

K.