The way you looked that night

It's one thing to experience the death of someone in their 80s or 90s. And not to sound self-indulgent, but when your fellow Baby Boomers take leave, it's a little scary.

Is that because Boomers - according to those younger than we - are so (choose one): A. spoiled? B. entitled? C. narcissistic? We are definitely smaller in number: The millennials have supplanted us as the largest generation in the U.S. 

(They are also said to be the most educated generation ever, thanks to the Boomers who financed much of that learning, thank you very much.) 

My mother, at almost 87, is a member of the Silent Generation, those born between 1928 and 1945. She is anything but silent, but her generation symbolizes bedrock, traditional values and conformity, a tendency not to rock the boat politically and culturally.

The "silents" are also tech-challenged, as I am reminded each time I hear my mother's Jitterbug flip phone ring.

She will often decry how much things have not changed for the better. The disappearance of older traditions - like wearing denim with holes only for farm work and pajamas only for bed and not a Wawa run - bewilders her and sometimes make her downright cranky.

Most of all, my mother longs for the company of family, not just her own but the extended clan of grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins who are gone now. And traditions? She hangs on to those like a falling cat clings to a tree branch: cursive letter writing, balancing a checkbook by hand and sending someone a card rather than just delivering birthday wishes via Facebook, which she calls "that face thing."

But the family losses hurt the most, including a Boomer cousin just last week. I get that she feels everyone is dying around her. And ironically, the only time mom does see extended family now is at the funerals that have taken the place of Sunday family dinners. 

But in March there was a reprieve from the losses: After two postponements due to COVID (or COVIC, as mom calls it, sounding like she's describing a '70s cop show), my son married - again - on the fifth of the month. The delay had my mother looking forward, but warily questioning "whether I'm gonna make it."

Just after marrying two years ago in a civil ceremony that closely followed their first postponement, my son and his wife left for Portland, Oregon, where he is a pediatrician in residency. So the "real" wedding date was filled with anticipation, and mom's worry was misplaced. She danced with seven of her grandchildren to a song that had particular resonance given that not only did she make the celebration, she looked smashing:

Some day, when I'm awfully low, when the world is cold, I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight. 

Mom's 87th birthday will be here soon, and she will remind us not only of the date but of what she thinks is the perfect gift. That's ok, because the glow she had last month will be the gift that keeps on giving.