Last photo of my mother on her 96th birthday
(10 July 2022)
My mother died today. Unlike Meursault, however, I'm pretty certain of that.
Because today also happens to be my birthday and I'm accepting her death as a kind of final gift: a chance to live again and re-enter the world from the same woman who bore me sixty years ago.
Funny how, at such a time, one thinks of a short French novel published 80-odd years ago (L'Étranger) and of a fictional character indifferent in the face of death, or, perhaps more precisely, accepting of la tendre indifférence (or absurdity) of the universe in which life unfolds and then quickly closes.
And funny how one also (rather shamefully) recalls the words written by Schopenhauer following the death of a Putzfrau to whom he had been paying a monthly sum by court order after an altercation in which she was injured: Obit anus, abit onus ('The old woman dies, the burden is lifted').
But mostly I just remember the final lovely smile my mother gave me as she found the strength to say my name one last time.
For a follow up post to this one, please click here.
