For those of you who have mothers, consider yourself lucky.

I don’t have that privilege, having lost my mother in 2015. She was 92.

It was New Year’s Day, and my sister, Jane, and I held her hands as she took her last breath, peacefully, quietly.

It was heartbreaking then, and we knew it would be for a long time. The first few years were tough as she wasn’t there for her birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas and other holidays, including Mother’s Day.

As time went on, the pain of loss eased as everyone said it would, and now, ironically, she seems closer to me than ever before.

I don’t feel the sting of her absence anymore as I recall all the years we kids flocked to her side with gifts and cards on Mother’s Day.

Instead, she seems solidly here, all the time. She is in our living room, pretty in pink and smiling at us daily from a silver-framed photo next to the fireplace. As my lilac bushes bloom and I inhale that inimitable scent, she is present.

Many years ago I dug slips from her giant lilac trees in Skowhegan and planted them at our Waterville home, where they serve as a sweet reminder of my mother. I remember visiting her one day and, as I rounded the corner of the house, there she was in her late 80s, rake in hand, culling out dried leaves from around the roots of her lilacs.

When I pore through her hand-written recipes and bake the cookies, cakes, breads, pies and other delectable desserts she made, I sense her presence.

My mother loved to laugh and had a sharp sense of humor. She enjoyed people and hearing their stories. She was outgoing yet modest, never seeking the spotlight.

She was smart. When I was away at college, she’d write me letters, often signing them, “Your humble mater.” She had studied Latin in nursing school and continued to use Latin words and phrases throughout her life. She was a voracious reader, consuming three books to my one.

Mom loved music. She played the piano day and night, performing the classics as well as tunes such as “Nola,” “Bill Bailey” and “Moon River.” We, a chorus of sisters, stood around and sang with her. Later in her life, she became fond of Scott Joplin tunes and belted them out at every turn. The house was always filled with music.

As busy as she was, working full time at the hospital and raising seven kids, she tended to our needs. She nursed us when we were sick, sewed costumes for school plays and Halloween, ensured we were well-fed and clothed, and bleached my brothers’ football uniforms before games.

She was fun to be around, including us in painting and wallpapering projects and accompanying us on trips to the ocean, armed with a picnic basket of her fried chicken, cream cheese and olive sandwiches, and lots of cookies. She loved to attend theater and musical events.

Mom was a swimmer, tennis player and a whiz at ping pong. She was sympathetic to those in need and was partial to animals. She wasn’t a complainer or crier, but take her to an animal shelter and the sight of kittens in cages brought her to tears.

It’s my mother’s lively spirit, which continued right into old age, that stays with me most, I think. She was optimistic and happy and fully cognizant that nothing lasts forever. She lived by the adage that you should live every day like it’s your last, because you never know.

Well, Mom, I’ve tried to live by your sage advice. And on Mother’s Day, I celebrate you and all other mothers who loved, guided and nurtured us.

Amy Calder has been a Morning Sentinel reporter 37 years. Her columns appear here Sundays. She is the author of the book, “Comfort is an Old Barn,” a collection of her curated columns, published in 2023 by Islandport Press. She may be reached at [email protected]. For previous Reporting Aside columns, go to centralmaine.com.