A Farewell Song

She did not appreciate August's arrival. Not this August heralding to the world that she would indeed be 50 years old in less than two weeks. As though that did not inflict enough pain, "And your Megan is moving on; moving out!" August sneered. She knew she wasn't ready for this. This 'next chapter' as some refer to the span when mothering as you've always known it ends. When parenting assumes a new arrangement; when all of your children are no longer children and the challenge of parenting young adults begins, or in her case continues and has already seen an end. "There is nothing more I can teach them," she mourns. The molding and shaping has taken place and now it's up to them to do with it what they will. All she can do now is hope and pray.

She cannot for the life of her figure out why it is so damn hard and why it makes her feel so old. She wonders if those who welcome and celebrate 50 are only fooling themselves. And if it is so easy, why the barrage of magazine and newspaper articles constantly cajoling us to embrace our maturity (old is derogatory; profane), to laud the big 5-O and beyond? Why must we be convinced? Because in the end all the diets, exercise programs, vitamin supplements, surgeries, etc., will not stop the aging process. So, now after the onslaught of how to stop the effects of aging, we are told that it is actually okay. Don't fret, REJOICE! At 50, life is only beginning! At least according to AARP magazine. "Oh," she hums, "a senior's life is the life for me!" A senior's life, it is a merry life. He robs young girls of their hearts' delight, leaving them behind to weep and mourn ...

She hears her mother's voice telling her she has absolutely nothing to fret about. She considers her blessings; the gifts she has been given and knows beyond a doubt her mother is right. Nevertheless, she can't help but wonder how to accept the wiry chin hair erupting out of nowhere (they weren't there yesterday, I swear!), the hot flashes leaving her bedewed in a fine, torrid mist, and almost worse, the sense of foreboding and despair signaling the onset of each hellish wave, and finally, a dulling intellect. She's offered it in prayer, but has received nothing. How does one age gracefully?

She knows her mother is right as she considers each one of her four children, an endearing son-in-law and now a beautiful, precious grandson. He illuminates her world. She knows her relationship with her girls is enviable. Others have told her so. And she knows that even her son, whom she frets over, cries herself to sleep over and prays for constantly, is really a very good boy. Deep down.Yet, no longer a boy. A young man with ideas and hopes and dreams. At times she sees him vulnerable and so utterly exposed just as he once was and has always been. She thinks about the woman with the hemorrhage who desperately wanted to be healed and knew she could be, if she could only reach out and touch the hem of Jesus' cloak. "I know," she prays, "if You could just talk to him, my boy, I know he'll be okay - he'll be just fine!" He knows, too. But he must listen. Yes, she knows and continues reaching and hoping and praying. And never ceasing loving him, her boy.

Seeking joy she finds them, her daughters. Each one unique; each one so very lovely like bumble bees bumping along the breeze. Virtuous, intelligent women fiercely devoted to their God and their family. How wonderful to be their mother and friend. Having already sent all but one off to college, and two across the sea for a spell and one to married life, you would think she'd be used to it. The good-byes. But the one coming is harder than all of the others. Her heart wonders how she will manage it. Her baby is going ... your Megan is moving on; moving out. She remembers days when life with her young daughter was nerve wracking; difficult days that she much rather forget. Two rough stones tumbling and knocking about until all the jagged edges were at once worn smooth. Yes, of course there are the many treasured mellifluous moments, more than she can easily recall, but her heart knows them so very well. It's her tempest child, now grown a bit more tame, whom she will miss the most.

I woke up this morning, a funny taste in my head. Spackled some butter over my whole grain bread. Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue. Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.

And so she sings her farewell song.


(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick