"MOM PLEASE LIVE LONG"

"MOM PLEASE LIVE LONG"
(author unknown)

My mother is 70. She hands me pears and apples, apologizing as she says, 'They don’t look that great, but they’re really tasty. They’re not sprayed, they’re from our garden. Take them, I know you love them…'

And I do take them. I take the cheese, too, because I love my mom’s cheese. I leave, get in the car, drive away. And again, I’m off somewhere. Always rushing. Changing cities and time zones. I visit her when I can, after all my other commitments—after coffee with friends and a manicure at the salon.

I bring her something tasty, ask quickly how she is, what's new. I listen impatiently (what could really be new with her and dad?), dismissively brush off her insignificant problems and worries, and then I leave again—back to my busy life.

She always tells me I’m not dressed warmly enough, that’s why my cough won’t go away. She says I’m working too hard, and it’s time to slow down. She’ll agree with me that life is complicated, and that it’s okay if I can’t visit as often.

And yet, we live just 20 kilometres apart. I call her regularly, listening to her detailed stories about the market, about her sister struggling alone in the village, about how the tomatoes didn’t grow this year, not even green ones—there was a drought. She tells me how our cat was bitten by the neighbour's dog…

It’s not interesting to me. It feels like nothing significant is happening in her life. I get a bit annoyed when she complains about her aches and pains, and I beg her to see a doctor. But she waves it off. What do I know about her medications? After all, I’m not a doctor.

Then, out of nowhere, she says so sadly, 'But who else will I complain to, if not you?'

I fall silent, holding the phone, realizing how unfair I’ve been. Her voice, her words, all our endless debates over who’s right, her grumbling, my excuses—all of this is our life. The life that’s happening here and now.

I jump up, get in the car, and drive to her ‘unplanned.’ She quickly makes me fresh flatbreads, dad offers me a glass of our homemade wine. I can't drink, I’m driving. He drinks alone, proudly praising his wine. We laugh…

I wrap myself in my mother’s shawl, it’s chilly. She swiftly tosses more wood into the stove. And suddenly, I’m a carefree, happy little girl again. Everything tastes so good. It’s warm. There are no problems…

Mom, Mom, just live long, because I don’t know what it’s like to not hear your voice, to live without your kitchen and the warmth of the home you create. I don’t know what it’s like to live without you…"

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