Mother, My Mother

I watch my mother as she crosses the room, climbs the 3 steps into the kitchen area and proceeds to bustle about making coffee for our “Aften’s Kaffe” (evening coffee) while we watch a favorite program.  No longer is she upright with the proud Jacobsen Princess bearing; instead she is rather leaning forward as she takes hesitant steps across the room.  She is not nimble going up the stairs but takes them clumsily and one at a time.  Sometimes it is rather painful to wonder where my beautiful, energetic mother has gone while in her place is this tiny little old woman.

       I know I am not alone when I worry about my aging parent.  So far she is still quite capable of carrying on with her kitchen duties.  She is still the most wonderful cook in the world and she still diligently cleans up the kitchen afterwards with pride and skill.  She dusts the living room, she does laundry.  But there are signs that she is not the same woman she used to be.  She cannot get out into the garden to rake leaves or pull weeds.  She can barely haul the water hose around.  She can still knit but she only takes on small projects which take longer than usual to complete.  Instead of taking her a couple of hours to make a pair of socks it will take 2 or 3 days.  She used to be a skilled seamstress but now she only hems up pants or skirts and not if they are black as she cannot see the dark thread against the material, she of the eagle eyes of yore.

       But then she comes out and stands at the top of the stairs holding out my coffee cup and a plate of “contraband” and she smiles her own sweet smile as her blue eyes twinkle brightly.  She says “I baked a cake” and so now I fall off the wagon as I eat the so-called contraband guiltily.  Her sense of humour is intact.