It occurs to me, just now, that it is October. That means it has been seven years that I have done this navel-gazing that is called “blogging.” Real people don’t blog anymore. They tweet. And Instagram. And ask.fm, if they are 14 and in the mood to bully. Or maybe they just exist.
I exist. Still. What propelled me to blog seven years ago is not what propels me to blog now. (I find it curious that it took me three times to spell “blog” correctly. Instead, I typed “glob.” Twice. Is that what blogging really is?)
When I started, it was to keep family far away updated on the goings-on of my offspring, none of whom had yet hit double-digits. But only just barely. That 9-year-old-nearly-10 is now nearly 17. And the best I can give him and his 15-year-old sister and 11-year-old brother is nothing more than archives.
This is me. Only me. It is who I am. It is who you need to know when you see a therapist at 25 or 32 or 46. Fallible beyond belief. I cannot emphasize that enough. Your mother is merely mortal, a condition you have surely come to recognize.
But that me continues, until the end of my time, to love you unashamedly, unabashedly, passionately until that asteroid hits in sometime in the 2800s, earth time.
I would give anything to believe that I will live on in you. That you will live on in me. But we won’t. Because we will end, and with atoms dispersed throughout this planet, we will grasp that asteroid. And our atoms will go on.
But we will not. I will not. You will not.
The worst part? I accept that. Will you?