A Gift From My Mother

My mother knows me again. She smiles when I enter her room and tells me how glad she is that I've come to visit. And while that makes me feel better (a lot better!) that is about the extent of our conversation these days. Oh, she talks and I respond, but what she says is a repeat of the stories she's told so many times. Stories from her past, a past that others might consider unfortunate at times, but to her it is a past filled with love and family and friends and adventures. A past filled with what she had, not what she didn't. How fortunate for her, to have such memories to recall.

This week the memories have been of family friends, of camps rented and evenings shared. Of sons and daughters who looked forward to those evenings as much as the 'grown ups' did. She talks particularly of one friend's son, a son who died last month. She talks of him in a way that makes me realize that to her he is young, too young, too young to die when in reality he was in his sixties. Granted still young, but not the young she places on him.

It is through these conversations that I learn from her. She teaches me that our positions in life and careers are unimportant and we should instead measure ourselves and others in kinder tones. Gentler tones. Tones of friendship and good times shared. Tones of laughter and tears. Tones of shared compassion and enthusiasm for life itself.

My mother has taught me great lessons and continues to teach me. From the diminishing broadness of her life she continues to reach out to me and to the world and gladly shares the beauty of her life with others. I could not ask for a more perfect gift.