I visited my mother.
On the first day, my mother didn’t know me when she saw me.
That was okay. She’s collected a whole lot of birthdays. She’s had a stroke. I’d prepared myself for such a possibility.
But then, sometime during the second day…she knew me.
I knew the moment it happened.
It wasn’t the “aha” moment I have with friends when I spot them in the grocery store. It was the quiet, solid locking of eyes when two people have shared the same experience. In that deep gaze, images came at me–rapid fire and plush with emotions: teenage arguments; late night talks, sewing lessons; snotty things I’d said…
In no particular order, wordless visions of our lives twined around each other as we stared.
She looked into my eyes and read the depths of my soul, asking me to understand all the words she wasn’t able to speak anymore.
“I know you,” was all the vocabulary she was able to say. All my courage and bravado crumbled.
I had prepared for my mother not knowing me. I was unprepared for the depth at which she knew me.
I’m not for sure who my tears are for….her or me.