Numbers are intriguing to consider in a world of emotions and events. They are the stick figures of our lives. They don’t look like much to others, but numbers hold the memories and emotions we experience.
Today would have been Mom’s 87th birthday.
Her 0 day was 5-5-1938.
Her last day was 6-13-2022.
She lived 30,720 days.
As of 9 a.m. today, she’s been gone 1,057 days.
Other today numbers for me beyond the date 5-5-2025 include 125, 1850, and 24,037: the number of days this year so far, the number of days in a row I’ve done morning pages, and the number of days since I was born.
What happens if I pool all the numbers that define my life? Or even just the numbers that define this day? Nothing. They’re like a box of plastic magnetic numbers that you dump on the floor for a toddler to put on the fridge. No magic. No emotion. But they’re mine.
What happened to those inert numbers when they tangled with the meaning and meaningful landmarks of my life? They attached to the emotion and events. Now, the number sequences appear everywhere for me. On clocks, in serial numbers, on license plates, in zip codes. I notice them because they mark my life, my joys, my accomplishments, my grief.
Celebrations and Remembering
This year, I’m not at the farm on Highway 60 to remember Mom. I’m not even in Louisiana, which, in case you didn’t know, is the 18th state of the union, added on 4-30-1812. I’m in Chicago visiting my second child who lives in a zip code that carries her birthday number in it. (I noticed that before she did.)
My daughter and I have talked about how to remember Mom this year, how to celebrate with our complications of time, place, and my very restricted diet of the moment. Maybe we’ll use numbers. We could count the number of things we remember that she did just for me. Just for my daughter. Maybe we’ll list the recipes that are special to Mom.
We’ll get lost in the counting because trying to count the things that make her memorable and loved are like trying to count the freckles she wore on her skin.
Maybe we’ll put ourselves to sleep tonight counting Mom’s freckles and remembering the gifts of the 22,980 days she was in my life, or the 10,958 she was in my daughter’s. Maybe we can think of 125 things Mom means to us—one for each day of this year so far.
©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2025
Ohmyword, I’m constantly counting numbers and dates. I have a SIL who congratulates us on ‘monthaversaries’ and ‘dayversaries’. It makes Every. Single. Day. Significant.
The love you felt and feel for your mom just shines out when you speak of her. You could count the number of smiles her memory brings to your face. The number of tears (limitless) you’ve shed for her.
The numbers possibilities are endless. And I’m so happy you do it!
My own mother passed away in 2002 and we were so happy for her! She had lugged her Parkinson’s plagued body around for nearly 20 years. We were so happy she could finally lay down the heavy load!
But I can just see the conversation when I cross the veil.
Mom: “My funeral? Ugh. I just laid there. Doing nothing!”
Me: “But Mom. You were dead. You really weren’t expected to be doing anything!”
Mom: “I don’t care! Useless! When everyone else was up and about. Serving. I was just lying there like a lazy loaf.”
Me: “Is Dad here?”
By the way, Mom lived 78 years. 25,583 days.
She has been gone for 23 years. Or 8449 days.
And I miss her every day!
I love our mothers!!!
Thanks for reading, Diane, and thanks for this beautiful reply. Lovely.