I drove back to my mother’s house in silence through the last of the falling snow. The world was still and white.  The Colts had lost the playoff game and I guessed the locals were drinking away their devastation in the usual hot spots.

It was a beautiful day with my mother – one I will never forget.  She sat in the wheelchair with a soft white down throw over her legs, and I pulled my chair up close.  For hours we talked in quiet voices; mine dropped to match her frail tone.  In the morning I asked important questions in those lucid moments while her mind was still sharp for fear of losing the opportunity.  Then she would appear to wander and her forehead scrunched up as she struggled to put the story together.  But she stayed with me, and together we fought the gaps in her memory and filled in the missing parts.  

Her skin was soft and glowing, and her lips looked like they were stained with the perfect lipstick shade.  Her pink sweater complemented her envious, soft silver curls which looked like they had been painstakingly set, even though a hair-washing was long overdue.  The bruises on her slender hands appeared to be healing, and her blue eyes looked brighter as she looked deeply into mine.  

Just outside the huge picture window, the white stuff piled up on the towering evergreen as it floated softly and steadily down from some unseen source, creating that warm, insulating sensation one feels from a perfect snow. 

There was an extraordinary calmness in our day that sent my soul soaring into pure Love.  Despite the care she now needed, her strength wrapped me up and held me tight, and I marveled at the miracle that I was receiving, at this extremely unlikely time, the very nurturing I felt I’d always lacked from her.