When I was a child， my mother often worried about her age and complained about growing older. I struggled to find answers as to why she lived in such fear. When I first understood that I wouldn't live forever， I went to Mama for answers and for comfort. She provided the answers I feared， but instead of comforting me， she only added， \"At least you have more time left than I do.\"

Her response didn't comfort me then or in the years that followed. I worried about death and grieved， knowing that my life would eventually end.

At the age of thirty-six， Mama was diagnosed1） with lung cancer and was gone six months later. It was years before I let myself read her diaries， but when I did， it was these two sentences that changed my perspective on life and all I believed：

\"I don't know why I spent my life worrying about my age. Now I just wish I could grow old.\"

The one thing that Mama feared the most became the thing she most desired—simply to grow old.

I was fifteen when Mama died. I went from a carefree teenager， whose greatest concerns were tests and basketball games， to the woman of the house. I planned meals and bought groceries2）. I washed and ironed Daddy's shirts. My identity wasn't dependent on numbers and milestones. Time was no longer a thief stealing days from my life but was， instead， a reminder of how many days I'd been blessed to live.

When I turned forty-five， I was asked if it bothered me to turn another year older. I responded， \"Why would I be upset over the fact that I was allowed to turn forty-five？ I'm celebrating another year that I got to live and experience the things I enjoy and to be with the people I love. How could I ever be upset about that？\"

I now see each day as a continuation of the preceding3） one， separated by a moment of darkness. Like the ever-seeing eye that for a second is hidden behind a heavy lid4）， yearning5） for yet hurrying through the blink6）， a day is hidden by darkness， only to be renewed by it. Although time is invisible， I once allowed it to define my life. By putting it into neat little boxes called days， I learned to put too much emphasis on ever-changing numbers and lost sight of the only number that really mattered—one. Although Mama left this world with hair that was yet to gray， she was given the same thing as those whose bodies were lined with age—one life. It wasn't a life to be compared to that of another， but to be lived as if there was no such thing as yesterday or tomorrow—only today.

I believe that my life should not be defined by numbers but by what I have experienced and what I have given of myself. When I'm gone， the number of years attached to my life will not matter. What I have given of it to others will.

在我孩提時代，媽媽總是擔心她的年齡，抱怨自己在變老。我絞盡腦汁想弄明白她為什么生活在這種恐懼中。當我第一次明白自己無法永遠活著時，我曾向媽媽尋求解答和安慰。她說出了那些令我恐懼的答案，但卻沒有安慰我，只是補充了一句：“至少你剩下的日子比我多?！?/p>

她的回答在當時和之后的幾年中并沒有給我一絲安慰。知道了自己的生命終將結(jié)束，那時的我擔憂死亡的到來，內(nèi)心充滿了悲傷。

媽媽在36歲那年被診斷出患有肺癌，并在六個月之后撒手人寰。幾年之后，我才允許自己去讀她的日記，但在我讀的時候，就是下面這兩句話改變了我對生命和我所篤信的一切的看法：

“我不明白自己為什么浪費生命去擔憂年齡。我現(xiàn)在只希望自己能夠變老?！?/p>

媽媽最害怕的那件事情變成了她最深的渴望——只是想要變老。

媽媽去世的時候，我才15歲。我從一個最多擔心一下考試和籃球比賽的無憂少女變成了家里的女主人。我負責做飯和買東西。我給爸爸洗燙襯衫。我的身份不再取決于數(shù)字和大事記。時間不再是偷竊我生命中那些日子的小偷，而是一種提示，它提醒著我已有幸度過了多少時日。

在我45歲時，有人問我又老了一歲是否讓我感到困擾。我回答道：“我可以活到45歲，為什么要對此感到困擾呢？我可以再活上一年，體驗我喜歡的事情，和我愛的人們在一起，應(yīng)該慶祝才是。我怎么可能會對此感到困擾呢？”

我現(xiàn)在把每一天都看作前一天的延續(xù)，它們之間隔著一瞬間的黑暗。正如永遠凝視的眼睛被沉重的眼瞼遮蔽片刻卻仍渴望著迅速結(jié)束眨眼一樣，白日隱藏于黑暗，只為在黑暗中重生。盡管時間藏于無形，可我也曾令其界定過我的生命。通過將它放進那些名為“日子”的整齊的小盒子里，我學(xué)會了過分重視那些不斷變化的數(shù)字，而忽視了唯一真正重要的數(shù)字，那就是“一”。盡管媽媽離開這個世界的時候頭發(fā)尚未花白，但她與那些身體已被刻上歲月痕跡的人們被賜予的是同樣的東西，那就是一生。那不是要與他人的生活攀比的一生，而是要活得仿若沒有昨天、更無來日、只有今朝的一生。

我相信我的人生不應(yīng)由數(shù)字界定，而應(yīng)取決于我經(jīng)歷的事情和我自己的付出。當我離開人世的時候，我的生命有多少年將不重要，重要的將是我用自己的生命為他人做出的貢獻。