Mothering my Mother

As I sit in the dark, watching a tiny moth swirl like a manic dancer around the lightbulb, I hear the first notes of the morning: the music of birds awakening. The cicadas and crickets fall silent as a rooster bellows from some distant yard. I slip into a trance—eyes closing, muscles yielding, breath slowing.

I wonder what the day will bring. Will she be "Sweet Gladys," the woman the world knows, or will the shadows take over? Some days are defined by anxiety—repetitive questions, confusion, and the restless pacing of a brain deteriorating stitch by stitch.

When I finally open her door, she greets me with a sheepish, uncertain smile. "What are you doing here, Susan?" "I came to spend the day with you," I reply, gently bypassing the fact that we combined our households over a year ago. She beams, her excitement radiant and new.

I close my eyes and imagine her dancing like that moth, but in my mind, she is slow and graceful—a ballerina encircling her Light. Her Anchor, her Comforter, looks on with pride as Divine Love cradles her. The peace is almost tangible; I find myself resting in the knowledge that the same God holds me just as close.

Mom is becoming more childlike, and strangely, this comforts me. It is far easier to reassure a child than to console a seventy-seven-year-old woman who is painfully aware of her own decline. I welcome this shift. I will cherish this season of mothering my mother.

Who knows what the rest of the day will bring? The best we can do is inhabit the present. It is a beautiful morning, and for this, I am profoundly thankful.

From my journal 3/15/2020