“My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.”
—— Mark Twain
Right now, in this moment… I write from my mothers kitchen. Mom is out in the garden right now. I am EXACTLY where I most want to be.
I pause now… breathe. Doing my best to be aware. To realize where I am and how I got here. As best I can. I type a phrase that I think describes something of this moment. I see my failure to capture this and delete.
Will I also delete this?
Earlier, on our morining walk, Mom and I spoke of the coming day. I listened to how different I seem to be now. How differently I am behaving from the way I interacted with her last time I was here, in her kitchen.
It was a different kitchen. It was a different time. I was seven years younger, as was she. Last time I was here, I also spoke with Mom of things like the coming day. Last time I also went for walks with her and spent time in her garden.
A different garden.
As I write this now, I feel a great sense of purpose. It may not be a great purpose, but the greatness of my sensation is there none-the-less. In this now, I know that I am ready to show up for my mother as the good son she deserves. To show her how well she did the same for me.
All these years.
Mom will come inside from the garden soon, and we will continue with our day. Our day will come and it will go. All we spoke of on our walk, will happen as it will happen. Another day will too, as this now will also have to be….
To be continued…
