My thoughts won’t settle.
I recently spent the day with my mother as she fed a final sweetness to her sister.
They’ve reached their mid-nineties, an ancient age. Two sisters side by side through a Southern childhood, the Second Great War, multiple marriages, moves, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.
But I didn’t know them during most of those years – not really, not even as I grew to my own old age. Not until now.
Now, I have seen them through the lens of their elder years.
I’ve seen nothing but dignity as they’ve pretended their crippled bodies were not bent. I’ve seen them endure breaks and swellings, beds and chairs without a murmur or accusation.
I’ve watched as they’ve comforted each other, fed each other with familiar reactions to what is happening in a world they hardly recognize – their eyes full of anger, frustration, fear, love – all the aliveness they’d felt during their many decades.
And they’ve sometimes included me in their secret mischief and laughter, in their gentle teasing as they fought to hold on to every particle of their own stories: clinging to the constant telling and retelling that was like nourishment that left them full and content.
Their hearts belonged to each other.
So it did not surprise me on that day, that my mother took my sleeping aunt’s hand, whispered to her again the memories and the familiar teasing. It was food for my aunt’s last slumber, before my mother bid her a sweet farewell.
My thoughts will not settle but I, too, feel full.