A quiet reflection on time and connection
Sometimes, a memory catches me off guard—often when I’m least prepared for it. I think about my mom. Her face appears vividly in my mind, but it’s not just a snapshot of her final days, bedridden and frail. It’s her presence from years earlier that lingers. Those moments when I visited her far too infrequently, dropping in briefly, as life pulled me in a thousand directions.
Those visits were short—too short. Fifteen minutes here, a quick hello there. I was always rushing, squeezing her into the gaps of my supposedly "important" schedule. I’d barely take off my shoes, already halfway to the next task in my mental checklist. But there she was, sitting in her chair, her world quieter than mine, surrounded by the muted gravity of aging.
What stayed with me, though, were her eyes. They were warm, like they held a secret only we shared. I was still her son, after all. No matter how quickly I came or went, I mattered to her. That warmth wasn’t just affection; it was understanding, forgiveness even—for my haste, for my distraction.
I often wonder now if I’ll look at my kids the same way one day. Will they feel that they matter to me, even if life sweeps them up in its relentless tide? Will M., as she grows older, still sense that connection?
Do we, as parents, slowly fade into the background of our children’s lives? Do we become footnotes in their stories—present, loved, but no longer central? Or is this just a universal truth about life: that as time marches on, we become less essential to the world, less relevant in its chaotic churn?