a single act of love

pleasure No one sets out to be old, but it happens none the less. What an odd place old age is. Well, it seems so, looking from the outside, not there yet myself. My mother is 88 years of age today.

Every visit I ask her how she is, and even when she was lying in a hospital bed, tubes down her nose, drips in her arms, she still answered “Fine.” I heard my father only say once in his life that he felt “no bloody good” and that was the week he died. What different people are the old.

I massage lotion into my mother’s hand, our fingers entwine and I feel her fingers gradually relax. The tension eases from her body and she soon slumbers.

Does she know that I love her? Love, the only gift that really means anything. Happy Birthday, Mum.

4 thoughts on “a single act of love

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