When I was a lass of long blonde braids, I remember being very ill. Not sick enough to be hospitalized, but hurting enough to have lasting memories linger within the ‘child’ of me.
Bedridden in the dark of a lavender room, I cried out in pain from a double bed shared with little sisters of two. All of my body hurt, including bones and single strands of hair.
Through fitful sleep, unseen fingers changed damp cloths from warm to cool above my brow. Soft kisses fluttered against burning cheeks. Fresh cotton sheets fluffed like clouds before falling across pale bare legs while a portable fan suddenly swung back and forth to whisper relief.
Upon awakening, noises were heard from the floor below. Pots and pans banged against a porcelain double sink. Shrill cries of an infant drifted upward together with my mother’s soothing voice. I remember wanting her to be with me. In my youth I didn’t realize that she was and forever would be.
It had been my mother’s hands who changed the cloth atop my forehead….her loving arms who cooled my frame with fresh cotton fabric and the strings of her heart that plugged the old fan into the wall, bringing much needed rest to my blazing body.
How strong the bond between mother and child. It knows no bounds and has no limits.
Not even time…