Last Sunday I figured you’d figure I was taking a day off. Today, I didn’t even realize it was Sunday until somewhere on I-70 in western Pennsylvania.

This is what happens when I visit my mom. I either can’t think of anything else or, when I do, it doesn’t seem important.

I’d written out my note for last Sunday before I left, planned to type it up Friday evening at the motel, or Saturday afternoon during mom’s nap. But when I pulled it out, I couldn’t bring myself to type. It didn’t seem to matter.

When I left this morning, somewhere outside Philadelphia I realized I was feeling some feelings. When I couldn’t find an adjective to describe them, I decided to see if I could simply name what it felt like in my body.

“It feels like there’s an ocean in my chest.”

The adjective is “grief.”

Her mind has been slipping for several years. Her body is now following. She’s used a scooter most of the time she’s lived there, proud of the fact she didn’t need a walker. Now she needs a walker.

It had a tattered handwritten sign hanging from it. “This is Joyce K’s walker!” facing outward. “Joyce, take your walker with you!” on the reverse. Both in bold black marker, words squished to the right.

While I was there I printed a replacement, had it laminated, hung it from the crossbar with zip-ties instead of tape. I didn’t replace the sign on the inside of mom’s apartment door. The barking hand lettering commanded attention: “Joyce, take your walker everywhere!”

Mom and I both have a roof over our heads, good food to eat, a warm place to sleep. Dad came close to running out of money but mom should have enough.

There’s much to be thankful for and yet, there is this ocean.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for this moment.