September 7th is late in the season to pick blueberries, and for my mother who is 80, it is a long way down the hill to get to the blueberry bushes, and an even longer way up the hill to get back to the house where she can rest. They don't add up fast on these days when we are just harvesting one at a time, for the joy of being outside under the blue sky, with blue jays scolding their disapproval from nearby trees, and chickadees calling out perpetual encouragement.
It is all joy for me to have my mother with me, wispy white hair blowing in the wind, and slightly discouraged at how little she has in her bucket. Though I know she is tired from the sighs, she does not really want to leave, and yet she must. We take slow steps together and I cherish each one, and each blueberry too.
2 comments:
My Mom is 84 and I know the joy of getting her out and about but also the joy of having her enjoy herself...
I have just been reading through your blog and love it! You write very evocatively...
I left a comment earlier today about my Mom. Mom and I share a house and Mom is beginning to gradually lose her memory. It is hard to watch someone who was "the family memory book" forget the names and places you spent a lifetime hearing about. Worse is knowing it will progress and she won't be the person she once was.
Still, I remember going to a conference of music people from our faith (I am Unitarian) and there was a woman who was probably not going to be at the next conference. She couldn't remember names or faces and was sometimes angry or lost but when the music started, she was :there" and present... She sang a number of songs on her own the last night celebration and I thought that perhaps, at the very least, the one part of her that was so precious to herself was still there and would be for some times after the "her" everyone knew was gone forever.
I can only hope that for my mother... and for yours.
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