My Mother, My Roommate 

“That looks like something Lori would wear,” my mother said as we passed a store window that featured a hot pink formfitting dress embellished with metal studs.

“Who’s Lori?” I asked, searching my memory for forgotten relatives, childhood friends and children of my mother’s friends.

“Lori on Shark Tank,” she replied, as if we were on first-name terms with the entrepreneur and shark Lori Greiner.

It was unsettling that TV personalities had filled the void in my mother’s life.

“You need to meet some new friends,” I told her. “Take a class or something!”

“I had friends, and now they’re dead,” she said. “Why would I want to spend time with a bunch of old people?”

She had a point. Neither of us were joiners, which just meant we were choosy about the people and activities we focused on. I couldn’t see her dropping by the local senior center for an afternoon of bridge or arts and crafts with a group of people whose only commonality was age.

As the weeks passed, I wondered whether it was tragic, realistic or maybe even OK to accept that our lives ultimately shrink with age. I stopped focusing on all that was missing from my mother’s life and vowed to make the most of what we both had: this time together.

Despite the drawbacks of old age, from up close I saw that there were pleasures it had not stolen. My mother and I spent hours on opposite sides of the couch, reading; historical fiction for her, memoirs for me. We compared our Spelling Bee scores, and I helped her with 1980s pop culture crossword clues.

“What is a doctor out of Compton, California?” my mother asked. “Three letters.”

“Dre,” I said, feeling incredibly old. “D, R, E.”

When it was time to move back into the city, I knew I’d miss the hours spent doing nothing with my mother. I thought about other times we had parted over the years. She told me I’d skipped off to kindergarten without a backward glance, calling out, “Don’t worry, I’ll say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ ” When she drove me to college at the start of my freshman year, I picked a fight with her as we neared the campus, equally eager and scared to be on my own. Back then, time seemed endless. Now we both know it isn’t.

I recently made lunch plans with my mother, initially suggesting an outpost of a Manhattan restaurant that had just opened near her. She checked it out online and deemed its prices “completely ridiculous.” As usual, she was right.

Instead, we ate at the senior living community she’d moved into the previous month. It was a few miles from the apartment we shared as roommates, and we toured the place together when I lived with her. As a guide led us around the facility, I imagined myself living in a similar spot at some point — and was surprised to find the thought comforting, not depressing.

“Lots of old people,” my mother observed, looking around the sun-filled dining room as we finished our Caesar salads. Walkers and canes rested beside most of the other diners, and my mother and I were the only ones with hair that wasn’t white or gray.

“Do you want to get out of your lease?” I asked, jumping into action mode.

“No, absolutely not,” she said. “Where else am I going to go?”

She no longer makes exhausting treks to the grocery store, plans and cooks meals or worries about being alone if she needs help. Though she avoids the community’s group activities, she loves her new apartment and has found a few lively ladies to dine with.

After lunch, we wandered outside to the garden, parked ourselves on a bench and did nothing. Sometimes, living your best life just means sitting in the sun with your mother.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.