Marcy’s birthday
Today my mother would have been sixty-seven years old.
I'm not sure I can really imagine her at sixty-seven. She was thirty-seven when she died; I have plenty of friends around that age now, many of them with kids, which provides some interesting perspective on what she must have been like when she was alive. But imagining her getting older, hair turning grey or white, imagining her as a grandmother to my niece—not sure I can really picture that. (I have friends that age, too; it's the extrapolation that stops me.)
Anyway. I'll leave it at linking, as usual, to a few photos of her that I posted a couple years back.
Her birthday is sometimes kind of difficult for me. Doing okay so far today, but we'll see how the day goes.
