“Life is filled with memories… Some happy and others sad; some you wish you could have again and others, you wish you could erase.”
My mom was narrating a story to my kids. A story I had heard a thousand times before. A story about when she went skydiving with her brother.
“I’ve had my share of memories,” she said. “But the most prominent one is the time I went skydiving.
“when I was a freshman in college, I was the kind of a person who was hungry for adventure. With all the pampering from our parents, my brother and I were typical rug rats who did anything we wanted to, whenever we wanted to.
“‘You only live once,’ my brother said. ‘Let’s go skydiving.’ At first, I was reluctant. After a lot of convincing, I finally agreed.
“My brother had already done all the research and had paid for the jump. ‘I knew you would agree,’ he said.
“The day I had to skydive finally arrived. My brother and I boarded the plane. I still remember how I felt, and what my brother told me – ‘You can do this. You’re my younger sister, after all.’ He was right. After reaching a high altitude, and of course, wearing our safety gear, we jumped.
‘Don’t freak out. Think of all the money we spent for this and ENJOY THE VIEW!’ my brother had said.
“And I did. The free-fall was mind blowing. The thrill of falling to earth at the speed of 120 miles an hour and the adrenal rush was just too much to fathom. I will always be thankful to my brother, who convinced me to join him in his adventure.
“But not all stories have a happy ending.” With pain etched on her face. She looked down at her hands and then back up at her small audience. Then she revealed a part of the story that she had never told me before. “My brother lost his life that day,” she said, as a tear trailed down her cheek.
