The day after my mother’s yahrtzeit started like any other. I woke up early, cleaned up a bit, went for a walk, and came home to Gesher davening with my class.
After davening, I opened Facebook on my computer and realized that all three of my siblings who have social media (two do not) had posted about my mother’s yahrtzeit yesterday. I usually do too, but this year, I didn’t.
This year, unlike every other year leading up to this one, I am 44, the age my mother was when she tragically passed away. One day healthy, one day later in the hospital, and one day after that gone forever. I am approaching this whole year differently than I have approached my entire life up to this point. It has never been more real to me that my life (or someone I love’s life) can end at any moment, and I think about this daily. Probably obsessively. And if I’m being honest, talking about it a little too much for my family’s tastes.
Because of this realization, I am trying to be more mindful this year, more present with my family, and less present online. Hence the lack of a snarky Facebook post recently, and more specifically, a Facebook post marking the anniversary of her death.
But what I realized scrolling through my sibling’s posts is that posting online is a chance for me to learn things I never knew about my mom. Because I was only 8 when she died, I take every opportunity I can to learn more about her. So I’m glad when I read what her good friend posted on my brother’s Facebook post. She mentioned that during Friday night of Shiva, my father had said to us, “Sing loud enough that Ema can hear you.” I hadn’t remembered this at all. I cried when I read it. I laughed when I think how loudly I always sing.
So I am going to post. Because of the memories. The ones other people have that I never got to.
I made a promise to myself when I turned 44 that I would take better care of my body, take better care of my time, and better care of my emotional well-being, and so I deleted my social media accounts from my phone, making it easier to resist the knee-jerk urge to check Facebook and Instagram throughout the day. It’s not just for me. It’s for my kids. I want the memories my children have of me to be joyous, silly, and heartfelt, but more importantly, I want them to remember me spending time with them uninterrupted with dings and vibrations. I have that opportunity right now. After all, I’m 44 and I’m alive.