Dearest friend,
Last week, my mom came to visit. She doesn’t live in the same town as I do, so we only see each other once, maybe twice, a year. That makes every visit feel like a small treasure.
We filled our days with simple things: shopping for clothing and some things she cannot find where she lives. We talked about things from my childhood and people I know from there and just catching up on general things. We cooked a few dishes together and eating out when we didn’t feel like washing dishes.
My dad passed away almost 24 years ago. Twenty-four years. That sentence still feels strange to write. She never remarried and built a life as a widow, as a mother of four girls, as a woman who simply kept going.
She now lives with my youngest sister. The four of us are scattered across three different provinces, so visiting all of us isn’t easy. Traveling takes energy, planning and money. I’ve started to notice something I wasn’t ready to notice. She is aging. It’s subtle at first. A little slower when she gets out of the car. A little more tired in the evenings. The way she double-checks directions. The way she talks about “if I can still travel next year.” Those small comments that sit quietly in your heart long after they are spoken.
To watch your parent grow old is not an easy thing.The woman who once seemed strong enough to carry the whole world now needs a moment to catch her breath. The hands that packed school lunches and held everything together now rest a little more often. The roles don’t reverse completely, she is still my mother, but something shifts.
You begin to understand time differently. Childhood memories become brighter, sharper and more precious. I remember her energy and how she get things done. Now, when she visits, I catch myself studying her face. Memorising it. Not out of fear, but out of gratitude. I listen more closely to her stories, even the ones I’ve heard before. I don’t correct the repeated details. I just let her tell them, because one day, I will wish I could hear them again.
There is a tenderness that comes with watching your mother age. It teaches you to slow down. To put the phone away. To sit at the table a little longer. To say “I love you” without embarrassment. To hug her tighter. It also teaches you that our parents were never just “mom” and “dad.” They are people. Women and men who carried loss, disappointment, courage, faith, loneliness and hope.
My mom lost her husband almost 24 years ago. She navigated seasons I only now begin to understand as I walk through my own life changes. I see her differently now with adult eyes and compassion.
There is grief in watching a parent grow older, grief for what was, grief for what is changing, but there is also deep beauty, because aging means she is still here. Still visiting. Still shopping with me. Still sitting across from me at a restaurant table. Still being my mother and maybe this season is not about holding onto who she used to be. Maybe it’s about loving her well for who she is now.
With love,
The Whimsical Mailbox