At the arboretum

My mom, in Milan, Italy, July 1965

I rediscovered this photo when I visited my mom in Dallas over Mother’s Day. One thing I love about this photo are the two guys checking her out. She was beautiful and so young, on the verge of turning thirty-four. I wish I could have known her then, in the way that one woman knows another, without the mother-daughter baggage. Next Tuesday she’ll be ninety-three years old, and we’re flying to Dallas to celebrate. The poem is taken from my journal about a 2022 trip to Dallas.

At the Dallas Arboretum

Still winter officially but the tulips and daffodils are blooming. I’ve brought my mother for high tea at the arboretum. The air is crisp, and I push her along the paths in the borrowed wheelchair toward the restaurant. We lose our way, which makes her nervous. I tell her gardens are for wandering. My mother doesn’t like being pushed in a wheelchair. She wants to be the yellow daffodil still trumpeting its tune. She doesn’t like getting older. At tea we're surrounded by windows looking out on just waking flowerbeds. From across the table, I watch her spread clotted cream and lemon curd on her scone. Her fingernails are painted the color of pink apricot tulips. “The scone’s a little dry,” she says. “I like the sandwiches. The cucumber one. That’s good.” When we finish, she claims pushing her back to the car is too hard. She can just use her walker and walk. But I wheel her back, around the fountains still turned off for winter.

My mom at ninety-one, February 2022

Thank you for reading and thank you for the support last week. I’m feeling a bit more grounded, at least my feet are on the ground. It was a simpler week. I did get some work done but didn’t push. I took naps with the cat, did yoga, meditated a bit more than I have been. Talked to friends. I spent less time online. I watched the Olympics. When I’m gentler with myself, I’m a bit gentler with others too. I hope you all have a gentle Sunday.