Then, she started to tell a story about a quiet little boy who made it a point to bring back his tray every single Friday just to say thank you.
She paused for a moment, her eyes searching the ceiling for his name. I knew it. She had told me this exact story years earlier. Normally, I would have impatiently jumped in and supplied the name to keep the conversation moving.
For once, I held my tongue. I waited.
“Curtis,” she said finally, a wide smile breaking across her face. “That was his name. Curtis.”
And she kept right on going.
“We’ve Got Time”
Long after the food was gone, Mom instinctively picked up two empty plates. “I’ll get these started—”
“I’ve got those,” my brother said, standing up and taking them gently from her hands. “Sit. You were just telling Hannah about the mittens.”
She looked at him, surprised, and then slowly sat back down.
A little later, I walked into the hallway to grab my sweater. Mom’s heavy winter coat was still hanging on its hook, her leather gloves neatly tucked into one pocket. Usually, by this time on a Sunday, she was already wearing it, hovering near the door and apologizing for taking up our time.
From the dining room, I heard Ben passionately explaining a complicated play from his recent baseball practice. Mom missed a few rapid-fire words and calmly asked him to say them again.
Without skipping a beat, Ben turned his chair completely sideways to face hers and repeated it.
When I walked back into the room, she looked up at me, a sudden flicker of worry in her eyes. “You’re not ready to take me home yet, are you? He hasn’t even told me whether he caught the fly ball.”
I pulled out my chair and sat back down beside her.
“No, Mom,” I smiled, resting my hand on hers. “We’ve got time.”
Pregnancy & Maternity
There had always been a physical chair for my mother at our family table. But that Sunday, we finally learned how to actually make room for her.
