THE GIFT

Author and mom

THE GIFT

I still see you, Mom, sitting there in your green chair, looking out at the mountain--Zack the dog, lying at your feet. He knew you were hurting. Wasn't much he could do, but fix his soulful gaze on you. And wag his tail once in awhile, for sympathy. Zack was old too, his step slow, once golden face now completely white.

Your swollen legs were propped up, skin so tight it looked near to bursting. I was afraid to touch them. But one day I found your favorite, rose-scented cream, and massaged your feet and legs with it. It felt so good, you said, and you smiled at me, as always--pride and love in your eyes as you watched me, no matter what I had, or hadn't done.

A good day, you said, is when I don't know I'm breathing. Your beautiful heart was struggling, but you never complained, even as you hated pulling the oxygen tank behind you. Finally, you'd given in and accepted it, as we waited while doctors tried all their magic tricks.

I had little faith in them. Your faith was in the worn book of prayers that always lay nearby. Zack, I think, had faith in everything. The look in his eyes seemed to say that he understood that dogs and people wear out, that even mountains reach their craggy peaks, then slowly round down their days. Dogs are masters of acceptance.

That terrible time passed. Finally, the doctors came up with the right medicines and you lived five more good years. I only rubbed your feet that one time and I don't know why. It was a gift and a privilege, one I wish I'd accepted more often.

Missing you, Mom...