I Wanna Live Like My Mama At Thirty

The weather feels unusually hot for May. The breeze drifting through the window isn’t enough to dispel this stifling heat. Can’t sleep. Feeling as if thousands of bugs are crawling on my skin. Tossing restlessly. Thoughts like a kite with a broken string, floating aimlessly in the vast sky.

Lately, bouts of insomnia have become more frequent, thoughts more numerous and directionless. Of childhood, maybe. Of the future, maybe. Of death. Is it too early to dwell on thoughts of death for someone who has just stepped into his thirties? I don’t know. But perhaps it’s not. What if, akin to my mother, who departed before her fiftieth birthday amidst June’s embrace seven years ago, I too meet an untimely end? It is not impossible.

June. Yes. Perhaps it’s the real cause of my recent insomnia. Right. It’s not this oppressive heat keeping me awake night after night, but rather a deep-seated fear of June. Shouldn’t I be afraid? Maybe I too will fall in the summer of June. Entering my thirties, after all.

It’s funny how thirty can be an enigmatic age. Not quite young, not quite old. Old enough to ponder mortality, to tally the years. Yet still youthful, with time’s imprint yet to grace the face. It holds a certain magic.

Recalling a distant relative I’d never met, who mentioned I resembled my mom in appearance at her funeral. Hope not to resemble her brief life, she added. But who can say for sure? I resemble her, both in appearance and perhaps in longevity. Is that a bad thing? I don’t know. But then again, if it’s true, if fifty marks the end of my journey, then at least it means my thoughts about death are not premature.

Perhaps I should begin counting down the years until I reach fifty, just as I heard a man did in his fifties. But, is this truly my path? Or was it my mom’s path? Did she count down the years until she reached life’s final chapter?

***

In 2005, back when I was still in elementary school, my mother would greet my straight A’s with a lifted smile, a kiss on the forehead, and accolades as the brightest kid around. But amidst her genuine joy, did she ever consider her own mortality, twelve years down the line? I doubt it. Her laughter was too sincere to betray such thoughts.

Fast forward to 2008, nine years before her passing. There she was, bustling in the kitchen while I half-heartedly helped, my attention stolen by the Olympics on TV. Maybe that’s when my love for tennis took root, though I can’t be sure. Amidst the clatter of pots and pans, did she ponder her own end? Was she counting down the years? I doubt it. She was focused on crafting a hearty meal for the family, with no time for morbid musings.

In 2014, three years before her departure, I tearfully left for college, casting one last glance at her, crying inconsolably at the door. Our shared sorrow echoed through the streets as even the neighbors peeked out to witness the scene. But amidst the flood of emotions, did she contemplate her mortality? Perhaps, or perhaps not. She was simply consumed by sadness, with no room for thoughts of death.

Then came 2017, the year she bid farewell. That fateful afternoon, I shared my post-graduation plans with her, to which she simply replied, “Sure, it’s up to you.” Did she foresee her own end at that moment, ticking away the seconds of her life? Perhaps, for she departed that very night, leaving behind an eerie sense of premonition.

Yes, it seems that counting down the years until the final chapter of her life wasn’t her style. She was busy living. For the family, perhaps. For us, maybe. For herself. She didn’t have time to consider mortality. At least, not at that age. If you’ve lived long enough, say 70 or 80, you may have the luxury to ponder mortality, to contemplate your own death. You may have time to count down the years, maybe even days. But living such a short life? Before 50? It’s not long enough to entertain those thoughts.

***

The birds are chirping. The dawn draws near. This melody is no stranger to me, one I’ve known well since my middle school days. Those summer nights were spent immersed in books, reluctant to close them until the birds’ chirps, the rooster’s crow, acted as my bedtime bell.

But why does the birdsong, once a soothing lullaby, now stir anxiety within me? It used to signal sleep, but now it chastises: “It’s dawn — why aren’t you asleep yet?” How strange this shift in perception is.

Perhaps I changed over the years. Haven’t I? That boy, immersed in late-night reading years ago, never imagined this present reality. Now, in a different place with a different mindset, he finds himself in his thirties, still searching. Contemplating mortality in the dark of night, counting down the years of his death. How blissful he once was, full of dreams and ambitions. “I want to be a scientist, a doctor,” he would answer if asked about his dreams. His eyes are now vacant, his mind adrift. He is neither a scientist nor a doctor. Such sorrow, such melancholy, to see him struggle even to live well.

Perhaps, perhaps he should take a page out of his mother’s book and mark 50 as the end of his life’s journey. With not much time left, perhaps then he would find the strength to get back on track, rather than dwelling on mortality in the dead of night. Perhaps then, he would come to the realization that it’s time to prioritize living well, seizing the day, and pursuing those long-neglected dreams. Time waits for no one, and there are still so many aspirations waiting to be fulfilled. So, go to sleep, you thirty-year-old man-child. Tomorrow, rise and embrace life to the fullest.