The Times, They are A'Changing.

Once upon a time my mom weighed 145 pounds. For decades she'd hop on the scale and the needle would find it's way to the magic number. Mom never stayed still, she was always doing: washing, walking, cleaning, gardening,cutting grass, cooking. When she sat down after handwashing the evening dishes, she well deserved it. When Dad commandeered the TV, she happily disappeared into a book. It didn't last long, because soon enough, she hopped up, turning on bedroom lights, turning down beds,  tucking me in, then taking the dog out for a last potty break,

That tucking me in lasted for decades. Whenever I visited home (without my husband) Mom would show up in the bedroom to say good night. We'd hash out the day, have a laugh, and she'd flick off the light switch as she exited the room (unless I disappeared into a book of my own.)

In my late 40s and 50s, after my dad was dead and buried, I came home more often, to check on Mama and to take her to "town" to buy groceries, go yardsaling, or have a bite of BBQ.  She was hale and hearty at first, continuing to walk her black pug to the end of the block.

By this time, when visitng, I slept in a king sized bed upstairs, much more roomy and private than the double in my childhood room downstairs. At first she crept upstairs to continue our ritual. But then one night, she didn't. Slowly, but surely the trips upstairs stopped all together and she lived her life downstairs.

Once she moved in with me, six years ago this April, she was proud of her ability to do as much as she could at 86. Short walks with a walker to our corner. Putting herself to bed on her own. And she upheld those routines as long as she could.

But now - the moment has come - I tuck her in. After dinner, I turn on her light, turn down her bed, lay out her nightgown, and open her hearing aid box so she can access it easily. She is still able to change into her nightgown, wash her face, clean her teeth, but then, she waits patiently for me. I pull back her cover, and she slowly and carefully positions her now-ample self on he bed and rests her head back on the  her pillows. And then, every night, gazing at me with her cloud of solid white hair, her apple-doll face covered in a myraid of age spots and regardless of the half circles of weariness that underscore her tired eyes, she looks up at me with a smile that could light up a village. I kiss her forehead, just as she once kissed mine and I tell her I love her. She tells me the same, as she did at 2, 20, and now at 58. She always ends the day with gratitude and offers her appreciation. Always ending with "Thank you, Shug."

No, Mama. Thank YOU, Shug.

Mom readingwhile a"great grand-cat" lounges nearby