Mommy, when someone turns 100, they die, right?

If only it worked that way. If only each of us, on the eve of our century, climbed into bed for the last time, having filled our bellies with chocolate cake and red wine, gifted our gold earrings and dog-eared books, dolled out pithy wisdoms and Werther’s candies, hugged the necks of everyone we loved, kissed our children’s cheeks, felt the rain on our wrinkles, watched the sun rise and the sun set, planted an apple tree or three. One day, you’ll learn all the ways people die young. One day, I’ll have to tell you.

Mommy, when you die do I get a new mom?

If the sun burns out, the world freezes in darkness. If gravity ceases, everyone and everything not-rooted releases. If all water disappears, nothing can replace it. “You only get one mom,” I say. Which is both true and not true. Someone else could kiss your sticky cheeks, sing “Hush Little Baby,” make you pancakes and honey, could teach you how to ride your blue bike, how to tie your bunny-eared shoelaces, how to spell G-O-N-E. You might even call this person Mom.

 

Bethany Jarmul is an Appalachian writer and poet. She’s the author of two chapbooks, including a mini-memoir Take Me Home from Belle Point Press. Her debut poetry collection Lightning Is a Mother is forthcoming with ELJ Editions in 2025. Her work has been published in many magazines including Rattle, Brevity, Salamander, and The Ex-Puritan. Her writing was selected for Best Spiritual Literature 2023 and Best Small Fictions 2024, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Wigleaf Top 50. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on social media: @BethanyJarmul.