Spending time with elderly folks is important to me. I realize that it helps with the unfinished feelings around my own parents. My father could have used a friendly face a few times a week, or someone to bring a sandwich. He was tethered to an oxygen tank those last years, and although he could drive, it would have been a privilege to be his chauffeur. But he lived in another state and my brood was taking all the mental energy at my disposal. So it makes sense that I drive another person's father to the grocery store, and wait while he peruses the frozen section. 

 

Caring for a woman whose eyes and ears have passed their "best by" date is tender as well. I speak up, and hand her a magnifying glass. For a long time I thought it was my duty to keep the conversation going, even if it meant retelling stories for the umpteenth time. But recently it occurs to me that silence offers a different kind of comfort. Sometimes I just rest my hand on her arm, and pray for her. Chatting loses its appeal when you can't remember what you had for lunch. 

 

There is one thing she still remembers vividly. Her old boss somehow got word that she was getting married, and appeared at the church. If he could have any idea that that gesture would still bring her joy 69 years later, he would be astonished. 

 

The painful truth is, I did not spend much time with my mother after the twins were born. They make a solid alibi, and yet the grief of having ignored her when she could no longer wash her own hair still hurts. Maybe she is looking down as I brush the silver hair of someone else's mother, and is content. 

 

In the meantime, I am looking for small ways I can show up for people, that might bring them joy 69 years later.