Most things we write come out of a moment of enthusiasm
So beautiful and eloquently put. I don’t have children of my own yet, but I already feel this way, and know that my mother feels the same about her’s.
She lies on the bed with her eyes closed, her hair puffed around her like a cloud. She’s not sleeping inside those closed eyes. Her body is still but she laughs along with someone I can’t see. I come closer and tell her I’m there and she says, “Momma?” When I take her hand she giggles and talks to me about candy. Her hand feels so fragile, her skin tissue paper inside my hand. She is 95 years old.
But in that moment she’s a child holding her mother’s hand. And inexplicably I’m reminded of my daughters.
Later that day, when I’m cuddled up with my kids at bedtime, I’m reminded of that woman. It resonates with me deeply that in her last days her mind clings to moments like this one. These moments matter – deeply.
But it’s not that thought that steals my breath away and makes me…
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