missing.
My mother calls me on my birthday every year at exactly the moment I was born: 4:26 p.m.
It’s a thing.
This has been a thing for as long as I can remember. I get the “Happy birthday” wish only once the clock hands spin around and drop on the precise location to mark the time.
This is how I knew something was wrong.
It was the morning of September 19, 2013. I believe it was around 9 a.m., but that part I don’t really remember. It doesn’t matter at this point. Because I got a call that day, on the morning of my 40th birthday, from my mother. So I knew the second the phone rang and MOM popped up on the screen that it was not going to be a happy birthday at all.
“Hi, Kase. I’m sorry. I’m not calling you to wish you a happy birthday.”
That’s all she needed to say. In fact, she didn’t even need to say that. My voice trembled as I said, “I know.”
Because I did know. I knew before she even said it because she never calls me the morning of my birthday. She always makes me wait.
“Gram died this morning.”
That was 10 years ago.
When I turned 50 a week ago, the first thing I thought of when I woke up was my Gram.
So much has changed. She has a great grandson she never met and a great granddaughter who is an amazing young woman who’s going to do big things. She already is. All of her great grands are awesome and headed for greatness. I blame her in the best way.
You see, one of the most amazing things I learned since her passing is that the egg that would become me and grow into this 50-year-old mama was once INSIDE OF HER as my mom developed in her womb.
So my Gram literally is the reason I’m here. In so many ways, I have her to thank for my empathy, my urge to tuck complete strangers’ tags into their shirts and to serve my community. She taught me the value of service and kindness. She was a beautiful soul.
I’m 50. She was 50 when I was born. And if I can do half of what she accomplished in the next 40 years, I, too, will leave a mark on this beautiful planet. I can only live each day with kindness and love. It’s what she would do.
My Gram as a young girl.
Hilda Breakwell Roberts. 1923-2013.