When I was little, it was she who rubbed witch hazel on my body to cool me off and put Vicks on my chest so I could sleep without coughing, yet now it was me caressing her face and rubbing her feet to keep her comfortable.
This was the woman who argued with me over whether or not to serve spiked punch at my wedding, but it was also she who climbed into my bed with me one night when I was about 8 and the thunder was so loud.
My mommy sat for hours reading or mending clothes or talking to me when I was sick in bed with the flu, chicken pox or the mumps, but now it was my turn to sit and read to Mommy, talking with her about my day or writing in my journal while she dozed.
It was Mommy’s voice I heard the night she came into my room, and I pretended to be asleep. She knelt by my bed and told me how sorry she was I hadn’t made the cheering squad. Now it was my voice in the night that Mommy heard as I stayed with her into the evening, and was the last of the family to say goodnight to her.
My voice may have been the last voice of her family she ever heard on this earth. I told her "I love you", and though Mommy couldn’t talk anymore, she wriggled her eyebrows and said, "I love you, too."
Photo courtesy of corbisimages.com
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