Today the headlines catch my attention and my heart. Kelly Preston, dead at the age of 57. Gone too soon. Breast cancer stole her future, and the memories still to be made with her family.
I know this loss. I know this ache. I know this number, this age.
My mother died at 57, to the same disease and fate.
57 should be the age of grandchildren. The age to plan retirement. The age to start living more and caring less. The age to take more trips and more personal days.
57 should be the age of fun, travel, volunteering and trying new hobbies. An age for exploring, reflection and creativity.
57 should not be the age written next to her name announcing her death.
57 should not be the age written in her obituary.
But it is.
And now, reading the latest headlines I’ve found myself carried away by a number. Numbed by its presence. Paralyzed by its symbolism.
There is no easy or perfect number for death. It will always feel too soon. But this one feels so premature it powers my grief with anger, fury, and disbelief.
There is so much in a number, and this one feels a lot like…
Gone forever.
Never again.
Lost.
Taken.
Permanent absence.
Missed indefinitely.
I lost mom two years ago and I still find myself wanting to call her. Questions about cooking or how was her day. It don’t matter I just want my Mom! Hurts like yesterday all the time. You say well at least she’s not in pain anymore but I am and I’m lost without her. I always will be until we reunite again. God I hope there’s a heaven!
Theresa, thank you so much for reading my work and taking the time to share a piece of your story with me. I hate that we share this heartbreak but I pray you continue to find hope and encouragement through my page and writing. You are not alone. Lifting you in comfort and love this morning. xox, Chels