tick tock.
It haunts me.
tick tock.
It softly lurks in the back of my mind. Weeks, months, and even years go by without thinking about it.
tick tock.
But it never goes away.
tick tock.
Every January it gains a louder voice. The 23rd day of the month glares at me. The calendar serves as an annual reminder.
tick tock.
A reminder that the time is coming.
tick tock.
She was 45 when breast cancer ended her life. She was 39 when she found that golf ball-sized lump that was the beginning of the end.
tick tock.
My mom was so young when her world crashed to the ground. She hadn't even begun to live her life when it happened. She had no idea that it was her destiny.
tick tock.
For as long as I can remember, I've thought of 39 as the age when I would begin to borrow time.
tick tock.
If I make it to 40 cancer-free, I'll consider it a miracle. A gift, if you will.
tick tock.
There is no rationale for the thoughts. They're ridiculous and cynical and pessimistic and so many things that I am not.
tick tock.
But they're still there.
tick tock.
It's what this whole thing is about, I'll admit. My mom died at the age of 45 and she left me with nothing. Nothing that tells me who she was or what she thought or how she felt. Nothing.
tick tock.
I can't do that to Alexis. I write as a gift to the future version of her.
tick tock.
Just in case I'm not around to tell her in person.
tick tock.
35 is just around the corner. With it, the shadow grows louder. 39 will be here in a blink.
TICK TOCK.
