At twenty seven, another thirty years represented more than another lifetime for me. So when my Mother died on this day in 1977 at age fifty seven, it was very difficult emotionally but there was an odd disconnect for me cognitively. I knew fifty seven was not old but it also didn't seem that young.
Today my Mother's oldest is almost sixty five, her two girls are sixty three and sixty two, her baby boy is over sixty; that disconnect is long gone. My oldest niece is not far from forty, my daughter is twenty five, most of my friends are older than my Mother was when she died. And irrational as it is, her premature passing now feels more unjust each year. It's been thirty seven years.
On the day my Mother was buried, one of the goons who fire bombed that Birmingham church - killing four schoolgirls in the process - died in prison. I remember and note this because that monster's death making the news that day nauseated me then and still makes me bristle. Someone good and kind and loving left this world on November 17, 1977 - a person worth recalling who never made headlines.