We were taking the clothes out of the dryer again. She used to let me help because I liked to. As she stooped to retrieve our garments, she resembled a wilting flower. She was beautiful but she was beginning to droop a bit, no longer the robust mother I remembered. I couldn't remember when exactly she began to look so weathered.
"You going to help me or not?" She clucked sharply. She didn't yell as much as she used to. She just liked to remind me she can.
While folding the clothes, I glanced toward the paintings on the wall. She followed my eyes and quickly returned to her task. Her brow was furrowed, she just wanted to do the laundry.
"Mommy, you ever going to paint again?" I asked.
"I don't know. ...No time." She mumbled as she looked longingly at her artwork displayed on our wall.
This time she stopped folding. She didn't want to fold anymore. She wanted to look at her pictures. Pictures of regal women, tropical paradises, and tranquil streams. I looked at her. My mother, the wilting flower.
She looked at me and smiled. I didn't know at the time that that was the smile you got when someone admits defeat. That was the smile you get when you know you had a season and it was over.It was the grin of resignation. She knew she was never going to paint again. She knew she was a wilting flower. At the time I didn't know. I knew she wasn't the same, but I didn't know she was different. I never knew she gave up, because she never gave up on me. As a child you only pay attention to the love and care you need.
When you're a child, mother's can't wilt...but they do.
I was lying in bed when I heard the familiar chime of an incoming text. Opening one eye, I opened the message to see two letters: GM. Still, in the stupor that slumber often puts you in, I scanned my brain to register the meaning...ah yes...Good Morning. I clumsily keyed in "Hey" and hit the send button. I kept my face deep in my pillow listening for another chime. Nothing. I switched my phone into silent mode and caught another hour of sleep before waking up again. This is a typical day in the life of a serial texter. I text a lot. I text because it's free (on my cell plan). I text because it's convenient. I text because it's a great way to have a conversation without actually having a conversation. But what happens when you actually WANT to speak to the other person with whom you are texting? How do you break the pattern? After months of texting, a phone call may prove to be awkward and break the momentum you built through texting! This has happened
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