my mother's last day on the beach

In August I took my mother on her last trip ever to the summer cottage. 

She is 91 years old, with grave dementia and various other ailments that have now confined her to a wheelchair most of the time. Despite some help, I have almost run myself into the ground trying to take care of her during the last couple of years. 

We had coffee on the beach, watched the birds, enjoyed the sun. She insisted on taking off her shoes and socks - loving the barefoot feeling, just like me. She was happy.

Pushing the wheelchair over the uneven lawn and helping her get to the outdoor toilet completely wore me out. I held back my tears until I was alone. 

So I decided this was my mother's last time at her beloved cottage, where she has spent so many happy summers. She won't miss it - she doesn't remember it when she's not there, and she was content to go home. 

But I grieve for her. She is slowly leaving me.

there's still my joy for Christmas day

A red candelabra, ghosts and longing, learning a new game, wheelchair transports, work, buying slippers for a dying mother, food and great people, deep sorrow and a love that grows for every year. 

There is no snow. And I probably don't need more than three hyacinths in the house.

One tiny child can change the world

One shining light can show the way

For all my tears, for what I've lost

There's still my joy

There's still my joy

For Christmas day

(Indigo Girls)