As Big as the Sky

The mirror is no longer my friend. I can’t hide the grays, the lines, the weariness anymore–the signs that I am becoming what I always feared: old.

I am not so shallow, so vain as to believe that without youth and beauty I am any less–if anything, I am more: stronger, wiser, braver. But you do not see me that way, and I can only hope someday you will.

When you were young, my greatest fear was losing you–that I’d put you to sleep and you’d never wake up. That you’d choke on your food. That you’d be swept away in a riptide and I wasn’t fast enough to save you. Those fears always lurked in the shadows of your childhood.

But you’re older now and I don’t have to worry that you’ll suffocate in your bed or choke on a too-big piece of meat or drown in the shallows. In its place is something new, darker, and harder to dispel: the fear that you will reject me. 

You don’t look at me the way you used to. I’m not blind: I can see the way your bright eyes flit from my graying hair to my drooping lips, from my wrinkled skin to my plump stomach. You’re disgusted by me. Embarrassed of me. It’s ironic; when I was younger, I always cared too much about how the world saw me, picking at all my flaws and imperfections–but never with you. You saw me at my worst and I saw you at yours, and you still loved me, still ran into my arms each morning, stroking my bed-head and saying, you’re beautiful, mommy.

I was once your source of joy, of comfort, and now I feel I’m at the root of all of your frustrations. You treat me like something that just gets in your way, like an old dog that lies in the middle of the floor or the broken recliner we dragged to the curb last month. 

You used to hang on my leg, following me from room to room–my greatest little fan. I’d step into the backyard for a minute to water the flowers, then return to find you panicking, thinking I’d disappeared forever. You’d fling your arms around me, greeting me with wet kisses and declarations of how worried you’d been and how happy you were to see me, saying, you’re my favorite Mommy of all the mommies.

Now, I could disappear for days and you wouldn’t so much as look up from your screen until the internet went down and you needed the WiFi password or you opened the pantry and learned we were all out of cereal.

Have you forgotten all we’ve been through together? All those hikes through the woods, trips to the zoo, hours spent at the table crafting with paper and glitter and glue. Singing songs in the bathtub, reading books before bed, picking blueberries at Grandma and Grandpa’s. Hauling stacks of books home from the library, driving from ballet and soccer then stopping for ice cream on the way home. Summers when Dad took off work and we took off to the beach and lounged in the sun and combed the sand for shells. 

Don’t you remember?

Or have I already lost you? 

What will happen when the years keep chipping away at me, cutting deeper, taking more? 

When my knees creak and my back whines and my joints swell, will you still hike with me? Slow down a bit so I can keep up?

When I bring you my laptop and ask you again to show me how, will you roll your eyes at me and think I’m just old and dumb?

When you move out and you're on your own, will you answer the phone when I call? Just to hear your voice and know you’re alright?

When you meet someone special, will you bring them home? Share the world you grew up in? Or will you be too ashamed of us, of me?

When you begin having children of your own, will you reject my advice, push me away, tell me my methods are old-fashioned and archaic? Will you forget I’ve done this before?   

When my calendar, once exploding with activity, is scribbled through with doctor’s appointments and checkups, will you think I’m weak, fragile?

When I tell stories at family gatherings, repeating myself and forgetting details, will you wish I’d stop talking and just sit there quietly?

Will you let me be involved in your life? Bring the kids by and let me take them blueberry picking or to the ice cream parlor in town?

When my countertops become cluttered with medications, will you still see the real me, the woman inside the aging body?

When your father is gone and I’m alone in this big house, will you come visit me? Let me cook you lunch like old times, eat on the porch where we used to watch for hummingbirds?

When my hair turns white and my face becomes mapped with wrinkles, will you still touch my cheeks like you used to? Hold my head in your hands and tell me you love me as big as the sky?

When I can’t get around like I used to, will you help me into the car and drive me to the sea? Stand by the shore with me so I don’t get swept away by a rip tide?

When my hands shake and my teeth grow weak and I can’t eat the things I once enjoyed, will you make me something soft, put a spoon in my hand? 

When my lungs fail to fill the way they once did and breathing becomes difficult, will you check in on me during the night? Make sure I haven’t suffocated in my sleep? 

When I am gone, will you be relieved? Unburdened by the responsibilities of caring for me?

You don’t understand right now. Your universe is so small and you are the center of it. I was a teenager once too. I get it. I remember a time when the last person I wanted to talk to was my mother–how she was always in my business, prying into my private life. I pushed her away, just like you’re doing to me. And now, I would give anything to talk to her one more time–just to chat about the rain or laundry, or to hear her tell the same old stories again and again.

I am not afraid of my beauty fading or my body failing. I will grow old and embrace every minute of it–as long as I know that behind those pretty eyes you always roll at me, is that child who once threw their arms around me and said, you’re my favorite Mommy of all the mommies. 

And, maybe now and then, let me hold your face in my hands and tell you I love you as big as the sky and that I always will.