What a child thinks when their parents talk about death

As we continued staring at Coach’s spring collection, taking in the turquoise leather and embroidered key chains, I realized my mom was never really going to buy the purse. She was never really here for girl’s night, for the both of us, just for me.

It’s been three years since my mom flew to Taiwan to visit my grandpa at the hospital. When he passed away, my mom returned home and told me to eat my vegetables and dress warm to stay healthy. She spared me most of the visit’s details and any feelings about her father’s death. What she did mention, though, was cleaning up his office — shuffling papers, boxing books and rummaging through cabinets.

However, even as I remembered this, I didn’t like that my mom felt she was doing me a favor by not buying the Coach purse.

I want my mom to have all the nice bags in the world — every clutch, tote and duffel. Hearing her talk about Swedish death cleaning irritated me because I couldn’t stand the idea of her preparing for her death now. How could she when she was still here, alive and with me?

Yet I know it’s not fair of me to completely shut down the practice. There is something beautiful about simplifying your life, identifying the essential and realizing what you need to be happy.

Like many kids, I’ve always viewed my mom as somewhat immortal. I can’t imagine walking into the living room and not seeing her at the family computer. I can’t imagine going on a vacation without her. I can’t imagine not ever tasting her food again. But there are moments when every child must watch their parent’s mind and body become something other than what they’re used to.

I’ve been reminded of my mom’s mortality more and more often — when she goes to the physical therapist for her back spasms, when she asks me to read an expiration label, when she’s in bed with her glasses, “The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning” in hand.

Aging has become an increasingly common conversation topic for my mom, but as she began mentioning death more often, I noticed that my mom began changing the way she lives.

Although I initially thought otherwise, decluttering her closet and kitchen drawers may have been a way of making space for a new lifestyle. Especially since retiring, my mom has filled her life with the intangible. She participates in a book club, works out more and frequently enjoys lunch with friends, something she rarely did when she worked eight hours a day as a pharmacist.

The importance of death is not an unfamiliar idea. An ending instills a sense of urgency in us that is necessary for growth, and to have sight of that kind of finish line is often what offers direction. But it never gets easier hearing my mom allude to or talk about death. However, I can’t deny that embracing the stage of life helped her recognize what is essential to her happiness and improve her way of living.

I don’t know a life without my mom. I don’t want to know that kind of emptiness. When I catch her sifting through her closet or reading that book, I feel like I’m grieving a loss that hasn’t happened yet.

But grief is a privilege and the final stage of love. It is what allows you to love a person forever. So, when the time comes, I’ll be honored to hold space for my mom, to remember her in every mauve lipstick stain on a glass cup, in every Barbra Streisand song and in every cup of echinacea tea. I’ll be thankful for the way my longing lingers — both the wound and the bandage.

Naomi Hsu is a senior at Carlmont High School in Belmont. Student News appears in the weekend edition. You can email Student News at news@smdailyjournal.com