reblogged as I think of my Mum every day
This small woman grips the worn strap of a large black purse tucked at her side, and leans forward in the rocking chair.
Her gnarled fingers trace tiny rose petals in her skirt as if to find a path back to her life; the aging face of her daughter, her husband’s death, her 90th birthday party, her flower shop.
She sits in the same spot every day, near the entrance door, waiting for husband and daughter to take her home. The daily vigil stops when I call her name,
Ida Mae, let’s go back to your room and look at the photos of John and Olivia, and one we took last week with all the nursing staff at your ninetieth birthday party.
I visit often, hold her hand and tell her “back when I was a little girl” stories, she told me over the years. Triggering a…
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