a more verbal Saturday

Mom talked more on Saturday than I've heard in a while.

First: when Mom had finished her late lunch while sitting at the kitchen bar, she reached for her blue plastic mug and began spooning water into her mouth instead of drinking it. She had done the same thing the previous day, so I asked her, several times, "Mom, why are you treating your water like soup? Why not just drink it?" The first three or four times she heard the question, she gave a dry, ghostly laugh and said nothing, perhaps because she was amused at her own behavior. But soon the questioning became too much for her: she eventually put down her mug and looked at me. Then, in a quavering but clear voice she said, "You don't need to worry about that." I laughed.

Second: while I was serving Mom her dinner, she looked over at the kitchen and saw steam rising from the range. "What's going on there?" she asked. I explained that I was making a batch of chicken soup. Mom nodded sagely.

Third: around 11:30PM, I came upstairs after Dad had tucked Mom into bed, and asked Dad whether I could say good-night to Mom. Dad told me she was probably still awake, so I quietly crept into her bedroom and stood by her bed in the darkness. Being sick, I couldn't afford to kiss her goodnight, so I found her hand instead and held it. When I whispered good-night to her, Mom whispered back: "Good night, Kevin," and squeezed my hand.

Just three humble utterances. That might not mean much to some folks, but it means the world to me.


_