Mummy

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That I would one day use the words little old lady to describe her. Unlikely. And yet — here we are. And somehow, it sounds tender. A tiny soul, that old mother of mine. That number: 98! And the hope from the world outside: she’ll make it to a hundred.

You try to prepare for the final chapter. You can’t. You wish you could. For a moment. Because she is still there. It is still there. The womb. So difficult. She still knows who I am. Relief. And I keep talking.

She gazes, those joyful flickers in her eyes —the last things left that still seem alive.

She is silent. Her son performs. A cheerful little act. A strange, somewhat bitter-sweet show.

I try —stories of grandchildren, the news, the weather, flowers, birds.

Gone is the resistance. Gone, that sharp edge.

Suddenly she is soft. And ever so small. And thin.

And soon —when is soon? That not-being-anymore, the quiet paradox of existence.

You bring her flowers. A gesture. Once full of meaning. Now, a little less. It doesn’t matter. They wilt at once. Room too warm.

You ask: Will she water them? She: They don’t do that. Everything stops. Soon too…

She brought four children into the world, and twenty years later, was left behind —by a man. The father. My father.

And then, no one. Except her children. Her children.

Always again: we, her children. Her children.

She was rarely truly happy. The weight of suffering. The martyrdom. The grief. The faith.

Prayers. Candles. The only manual.

A complaint, softened by belief. So tender, so bitter-sweet. And yet, bitter — by choice.

Glass half full? No — half empty. “But I always did my best.”

Love is: accepting someone. Tomorrow, I’ll go again.

To talk about the past Olympic races, about normal life after the trip, about the little girl I can’t stop talking about.

And I already know: She’ll look confused. She’ll smile. A soft smile. Say something —I won’t catch the words.

But she’ll smile. Still.