My mom recently turned 62.
I still say it that way: turned. Not “would have turned,” not always. Because in our family, her birthday did not stop arriving just because she was no longer physically here to celebrate it with us. The date still comes. The memories still show up. Her name still gets mentioned. Her presence still finds its way into conversations, into decisions, into the way we care for one another, and into the little moments when we suddenly remember something she used to say.
It has been six years since she passed.
But I don’t want this to be about the loss.
Loss is part of the story, of course. It always will be. When someone as important as a mother leaves, you do not simply move on as if life returned to its old shape. You learn to live around the space they left. You learn that missing someone can become part of your daily language. You learn that years can pass and yet you still catch yourself thinking, "Ma would love this," whenever something good happens, whenever you discover a new place, or whenever the family gathers and her absence is somehow impossible to ignore.
But this is not a story about what death took.
This is a story about who she was—and who she could have continued to be.
This is about imagining my mom at 62.
And knowing her, she would have been enjoying.
She would have been enjoying the simple things. A good meal. A long conversation. A family gathering. A random day out. A birthday celebration she would probably pretend was not a big deal while secretly enjoying every greeting, every small gift, and every person who remembered.
She would have been enjoying time with us. With me. With the people she loved. My mom loved spending time with me, even when there was nothing grand planned. It did not always have to be an occasion. Sometimes it was just eating somewhere. Sometimes it was just talking. Sometimes it was simply being in the same place, sharing a meal, exchanging stories, catching up on life.
I know that if she were still here, she would have been bugging me to bring her to the places I go.
She would have asked where I was going. She would have asked who I was with. She would have asked what the place looked like, what the food tasted like, whether it was worth visiting. And then, sooner or later, she would have found a way to say, “Dalhin mo naman ako diyan.”
And honestly, I wish I could.
I wish I could bring her to the places I now go to. I wish I could take her to the restaurants I discover, the cities I visit, the simple corners of the world that I know she would have loved. I wish I could watch her look around and enjoy herself. I wish I could hear her comments, her questions, her little complaints, her laughter. I wish I could sit across from her again, order food, and talk about everything and nothing.
Because that was one of the beautiful things about her. She did not always need much to be happy. Sometimes, she just wanted time.
Time with her children. Time with family. Time with the people who mattered to her.
At 62, I imagine she would have had more stories to tell. Some of them new, some of them repeated for the hundredth time. She would probably start with one topic and end up somewhere completely different. She would mention someone from years ago. She would remember a detail no one else remembered. She would laugh before finishing the story. And even if we had heard it before, we would listen again because that was part of her charm.
I imagine her at 62 giving advice no one asked for, but everyone probably needed.
I imagine her reminding us to eat, to rest, to be careful, to save money, to help others, to not forget where we came from. I imagine her checking in on people. I imagine her carrying everyone in her heart, the way mothers often do. Quietly. Constantly. Without needing recognition.
And most of all, I imagine her helping.
Because my mom loved helping others.
Not in the performative way. Not in the way that needed attention or applause. She helped because it was simply who she was. It was almost automatic for her. If someone needed something and she had a way to help, she would help. Even when she was tired. Even when she had very little left for herself. Even when she did not have anything in the tank, she would still try to give.
That was one of the strongest lessons she left us.
She once taught us this principle: when you have little and others have none, share that little so everyone else has something.
I remember that to this day.
It sounds simple, but it carries a whole way of seeing the world. It means abundance is not only measured by how much you have. Sometimes, abundance is found in the willingness to share. It means generosity is not only for the rich, the comfortable, or the people who have extra. Sometimes, generosity is most powerful when it comes from people who know what it means to have less.
My mom understood that.
She did not wait until everything was perfect before she helped. She did not wait until she had more than enough. If she had something, even a little, and someone else had nothing, she would find a way to share it. Food, money, time, care, advice, presence. Whatever she could give, she gave.
Looking back, I realize that kind of generosity is not ordinary.
It takes a particular kind of heart to give when you are also running low. It takes a deep kind of compassion to see another person’s need even while carrying your own. It takes love, discipline, and maybe even a little stubbornness to keep helping in a world that often teaches people to protect only themselves.
That was my mom.
She could be tired and still show up. She could be worried and still think of others. She could have her own problems and still ask how someone else was doing. She could have little and still make sure someone else had something.
I think that is one of the reasons her memory remains so alive. Because people like that do not really disappear. Their kindness continues moving through the people they helped. Their words become principles. Their habits become examples. Their love becomes a standard you carry with you, even years later.
And at 62, I know she would still be that person.
She would still be helping. Still giving. Still worrying about other people. Still finding ways to stretch whatever she had so someone else could be included. She would still be the person who could not fully enjoy something unless she knew the people around her were okay too.
That is probably why she would have been such a doting grandmother.
She would have been spoiling her six grandchildren.
That is what lolas do.
I can imagine it so clearly. She would have been the kind of lola who sneaks extra food onto their plates. The kind who says “last na” but gives more anyway. The kind who buys little things for them, even when no one asked. The kind who defends them when their parents are trying to be strict. The kind who would say, “Hayaan mo na, bata pa,” while quietly giving them exactly what they wanted.
She would have loved watching them grow.
She would have celebrated their smallest milestones as if they were major achievements. A new word. A school award. A drawing. A dance. A funny sentence. A birthday. A graduation. A random story from school. She would have listened to all of it. She would have been proud of all of it.
And knowing her, she would have made each grandchild feel special.
She would have found a way to connect with each one. She would know their favorite food, their little moods, their ways of asking for attention. She would probably have nicknames for them. She would probably spoil them differently, according to what each child liked. And even when she got tired, she would still make room for them because love, for her, always had room.
I sometimes think about what they missed by not having more years with her.
But again, I do not want this to be about what was lost.
I want it to be about what remains.
What remains is the love she gave us. What remains is the generosity she modeled. What remains is the way she made family feel like something you return to. What remains is the principle she taught us: that even when you have little, you can still share. What remains is the memory of a woman who loved deeply, helped freely, and found joy in being with the people she loved.
What remains is her.
Not physically, but everywhere.
She is in the way we think of others. She is in the way we offer help. She is in the way we gather around food. She is in the way we remember birthdays. She is in the way we talk about family. She is in the way her grandchildren are loved. She is in the way I move through the world with a little more tenderness because she showed me what tenderness looks like when it becomes action.
Six years later, I still miss her.
That will never change.
But I also celebrate her.
I celebrate the woman who would have been 62. The woman who would have wanted to go places with me. The woman who would have enjoyed eating, talking, laughing, and asking me to bring her along. The woman who would have spoiled her grandchildren shamelessly. The woman who would have helped even when she had little. The woman who taught us that generosity is not about excess, but about heart.
I celebrate the version of her that I believe would still be living fully, loving loudly, and giving endlessly.
Maybe she would have had more gray hair now. Maybe she would have complained about body aches. Maybe she would have taken longer to get ready but still insisted she was ready “in five minutes.” Maybe she would have wanted photos but rejected the ones where she did not like how she looked. Maybe she would have had more stories, more opinions, more reminders, more reasons to laugh.
Maybe she would have been softer in some ways and stronger in others.
Maybe 62 would have looked good on her.
I wish we got to see it.
But since we cannot, I choose to imagine it with love.
I choose to remember her not only through sadness, but through the life she would have continued to enjoy. I choose to honor her by carrying the things she taught us. I choose to speak of her as someone who was more than the day she left. She was not defined by her passing. She was defined by how she lived.
And she lived with love.
She lived with generosity.
She lived with a heart that made room for others, even when her own was tired.
Happy 62nd birthday, Mama Emily.
I hope you know that you are remembered not only with tears, but with stories. With laughter. With gratitude. With every little act of kindness we learned from you. With every meal we wish we could share with you. With every place I wish I could bring you. With every grandchild who would have been lucky to be spoiled by you.
You would have been enjoying.
And somehow, through the love you left behind, I think you still are.
