I was going through old notebooks when I came across this piece that I wrote for my mum over 13 years ago when, at age 55, she died suddenly of a heart attack. I didn’t want to throw this piece away, so I’m posting it here. It’s not about health but it is a reminder to us all to make time for the people we love as well as for ourselves.
There will be time, I said. But not just now.
Soon, mum, soon. But not today.
One day, I promise I’ll sit with you and listen as you tell me your story. I’ll put pen to paper so that one day your grandchildren and great grandchildren will know who you were, what you did and how you suffered. They will know how, even through all your suffering, you still managed to find time.
Time for me. Time for the family. But never really time for you.
I can wait, you said.
There will be time for me, you said.
So I believed you and built my life on that premise, certain that one day I would have time for you.
I refused to believe it when you were dying. I needed to believe that you would open your eyes again.
I’d make time for you then.
If you just opened your eyes and gave me a little more time.
The irony was not lost on me that even in death, I wanted something more from you. Something that you were no longer able to give.
I lied to you mum. I said there would be time. But your time ran out. And so did ours.
So, now I take the time.
Time for me. Time for my family.
And time to remember the beautiful soul who time stole from me.