My mother is 89 years old. Two years ago, she moved in to live with me. Every morning, I hear her rise at around half past seven. She quietly chats with her elderly cat, Matilda, and dishes up her breakfast. After that, she prepares her own meal and settles on the sunlit patio with a cup of tea, waiting until shes fully awake.
Then, she grabs the mop and makes her way through the entire houseabout 2,600 square feetclaiming its her daily exercise. If shes in good spirits afterwards, shell whip up something in the kitchen, tidy up, or do her usual morning stretches.
In the afternoon, she indulges in her beauty ritual, which is ever changing. Sometimes shell rummage through her vast wardrobea collection so fine it could sit in a museum. Many pieces she passes along to me, some she gifts to others, and a few she sells off like a true businesswoman. I often remark,
Mum, if youd invested all that money in something else, youd be living in luxury now!
She just laughs,
I like my clothes. Besides, one day, itll all be yours. Your sister, bless her, hasnt a clue about style.
To keep ourselves occupied, about five times a week we stroll three miles round the lake. Once a month, she has a girls night with her friends. She reads endlessly, always poking about in my library for something new. Daily, she telephones her sister who is now 91, living in Brighton and visiting us twice a year. (By the way, my aunt still works as an accountant for a private client.)
Aside from her beloved Matilda, her greatest joy is the tablet I gave her last Christmas. She reads everything she can about her favourite writers and composers, listens to the news, watches ballet, opera, and goodness knows what else. Come midnight I often hear her muttering,
I ought to be asleep, but YouTube went and played Pavarotti for me.
She and her sister have truly won the genetic lottery. Yet my mother still laments,
I look dreadful! shell say.
I try to keep her cheerful,
Mum, at your age, most people would have long departed this earth……and yet here you are, outliving the Queen’s birthday cakes and half the trees in Kensington Gardens.
She gives me a wink, smoothing the silver hair that tries rebelliously to curl. Matilda purrs on her lap, her tablet glowing softly.
One evening, I watch as she lifts her teacup in the fading gold of twilight, her smile brighter than the chandelier above us.
My dear, she says quietly, lifes real beauty isnt in the wardrobe, nor in the years countedbut in mornings with your daughter, a cat at your heels, and Pavarotti serenading sleep. Everything else is just lace and ribbon.
I lean in, savoring the warmth between us, and realize, with gratitude, that some treasures are never worn outtheyre simply passed on, love stitched into every day together.
