One of life’s cruel ironies is something I never saw coming: I am growing old without my mother. She was there for every milestone – good, bad and downright ugly. Even when we didn’t see eye to eye, she was there. Sometimes she said her piece, whether or not I wanted to hear it. Other times, I’m certain, she stood on the sidelines holding her tongue. But she was always there. From infancy to adulthood. Through puberty, periods, boys. Through marriages, divorces, pregnancies, nursing fussy babies. When I returned to work, needed child care for a sick kid, sprained my ankle. At countless birthday parties, baseball games, concerts and graduations. When I bought a house, went through menopause, became an empty nester, had my first grandchild. Mom was always there.

I write this on the tenth anniversary of her passing. I find myself longing for one last cup of tea with her. That’s when we had our best conversations. The ritual provided a little island of intimacy for us, while the kids played nearby or the menfolk watched the game. We shared a cup of tea and talked in hushed tones about so many things – some trivial, some important. 

It has been a decade since we put the kettle on. So much has happened to me. So much has changed. My close friends offer support, advice and humor when needed. I am grateful for our shared journey, of course. But my mother had the lived experience of late life transitions. When I struggle with the image in the mirror, when my joints prevent me from doing things I always took for granted. When my children no longer need me, when my grandson no longer calls and asks “Can I sleep over?”  When I sold my house and downsized, tossing out things I’d held precious most of my life. When my friends become sick and die. I know that my mother had all of these same emotions, challenges and heartbreaks. I imagine having these conversations with her, over a cup of tea. Her words would be like a life preserver on a turbulent sea. We would understand how our experiences differ. She had my dad at her side as she grew old. I am doing it alone. But the feelings of loss would be the same. She would show me from whence to draw courage to weather the storm of old age. She would love me through it.

I like to think she is still there, on the sidelines. Sometimes I can feel her there. Is she cheering me on? Or biting her tongue? Probably a little of both. 

Today I will honor her with a cup of tea. I’ll use one of her English China cups and imagine what I’d say to her, were she sitting across the table. I’ll listen for her voice, her advice, her laughter. It’s not nearly enough, but it’s something. Then I will simply try to love myself through it, the way she would have.