"When are you coming?"
"On Sunday, why?"
"Because I want to get somethings, make the bed..."
"Oh, Mom," she said.
I felt an echo in me:
I had made the beds just the weeks before on a visit to my mother's, because of her back.
Always before she had, but now I did, knowing where everything was: I had moved her there.
Looking for recipes of dishes my daughter likes, I found the ones for meals I had made my mother,
in her new kitchen, and put them away like an echo in a drawer.
Reviewing their ways, looking for similarities in their rhythms (there were non);
I weighed them against my need to be alone.
I am related to neither now (their blue eyes are so dissimilar) and yet I am their link.
There are echos back and fort through me:
I live alone, as I do my mother and my daughter,
none of us in the house
where we were raised
or spent our marriages.
Each of us is careful of the others,
unyielding in small significant ways.
I now mother my mother
when I can no longer mother my daughter
who is older than I have ever felt myself to be. - Susan S. Jacobson
-Stories inspired by Robert Strand-Moments to Cherish devotional
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