Plenty of time at my mother's this weekend has me thinking. I worked cleaning and hauling and carrying and repairing among all of my mother's things, and most of those things are things I grew up with. Yet, the mother around those things is not the mother I knew.
This mother has aged. This mother is tired. This mother is now frail and needy, and not the resource I used to rely on. The roles have reversed, and now I'm the resource. I saw it coming, but it seems like it happened in just the one visit.
My mother taught me to knit. Now, her fingers are so gnarled by arthritis that she's unable to write legibly, let alone knit anything. It's hard to see her in such pain. I'm designing her a pair of fingerless mitts like the ones I wear when my hands ache. I don't know if they'll help any, but I want to try. I don't know why I didn't picture making lap blankets and mitts for my own mother, and now I wish I had made them sooner. Better late than never.