My Mother

My Mother will turn 77 years old in a couple weeks.

She has not had an easy life, by any means. Mom fought a battle with polio at age 25, which left her unable to move her legs ever since. She and Dad married in 1958, despite her disability. She gave birth to and raised three children, all while wheel chair bound.

Mom would not brag at all about her life, nor take credit for any of the accomplishments she made. She sewed almost all of our clothes, making me a special winter coat, red with fake fur trim on the collar and sleeves from an adult coat she salvaged and recycled. Mom was always an artist at heart. I have a collection of oils she painted in the 1960’s. She also dabbled in pottery, doll making and quilting. Each of her grandchildren is kept warm with a hand made quilt from their Grandmother.

Her hands are too feeble to do quilting anymore. Her eyes are too weak for painting. Her mind is failing with every passing day. It seems as if she is much older than she is. Mom is aging right in front of my eyes.

As life makes it’s circle, I find myself taking care of my mother in some of the same ways she cared for me. Making sure she eats well, takes her medicine and gets to doctor appointments. Making sure she has flowers to see out her window and someone to visit with on Sunday afternoons.

Glancing into my mother’s eyes, I see her younger self – aching to get out, wishing to live life a little bit more like she did ten years ago. Glancing into my mother’s eyes, I see my own mortality – and my daughter being left with the same burdens I am now.

Except, they are not burdens to me at all. I love my mother, and love is never a burden.