2/24/26 If She Were 95

If my mother were here today, she would be 95.

And I can almost hear her saying:

 

Sakes alive I’m 95

Now I would rather be where you’re at

But that is neither here nor that

I tell you what it’s not so bad

To be with Arthur, Jim and Dad

And don’t you worry your sweet little hearts

Cause even in heaven, there’s nothing worse than my farts

Fooey nuts is all I can say

And I’ll be here on your judgement day!

 

That was her.

A little dramatic. A little irreverent. Completely unwilling to let anything get too sentimental without poking it with a stick.

She’d remind us she’d rather still be here — and in the same breath reassure us she’s fine where she is. She’d name the men she loved. She’d make heaven sound like a reunion instead of a mystery.

And then she’d ruin the holiness with a fart joke.

Because even in heaven, you’re still you.

The line that stays with me is this:

And I’ll be here on your judgement day.

Still watching. Still mothering. Still loving.

If she were 95, she’d be laughing while we cried.

And somehow, that makes me feel better.