Things change just about the time you get used to the way it is. if it happens that you’re particularly fond of the way it is, things are bound to change so much that you're not sure if you’re you. My mother died in November; she was nine days shy of her sixty-second birthday. In something like nine days, I will be twenty-eight years old. Without my mothers constant stream of advice, I feel disconnected from the adult reality I’ve built myself.

At sixty-two, one is privy to a shitload of senior citizen discounts. My mom was really looking forward to those. Now, I have thirty-five years until the “ten percent off for seniors” announcement rings my bells again. On the kind of shopping excursions that were my mothers and my joy, I feel her presence. I would like to call her and discuss whether or not it’s silly to be overcome with emotion while shuffling through the vintage rack at the thrift store.

I don’t expect my mother will answer my phone calls. In fact, I’m not sure if the phone number she maintained for fourteen years is still in service. The thought of it ringing endlessly horrifies me. I do know that the sale of our home is final and soon a giant tent will cover the house in a battle against termites that never once bothered either of us. To imagine poisons rolling through the empty rooms that hold my history brutally affects a part of me I cannot yet identify.

My mother looked up to me – I think I embodied so much of what she wanted be but didn’t have the strength to contemplate until it was too late in her life.