Mom is 70. She hands me pears and apples, apologizing, “They may not look very nice, but they’re delicious. They’re organic, from our garden. Take some; I know you love them…”
And I take them. I also grab some cheese because I love Mom’s cheese. I head outside, get in my car, and leave. Once again, I’m on the go. I’m in a hurry, changing cities and time zones. I visit Mom when I can—after all my work, after coffee with friends, and a manicure at the salon.
I bring her something tasty, quickly ask how she is, what’s new, and listen patiently (as if there’s anything new with her and Dad). I can be a bit sarcastic about her problems, which seem insignificant to me, and then I rush off—running to my obligations.
Mom always tells me I’m not dressed warmly enough, that I’m not taking care of my throat, and that’s why my cough won’t go away. She’ll say I work too much and it’s time to calm down. She agrees with me that life is complicated and that it’s okay if I can’t visit her often.
Yet we live just 20 kilometers apart. I call her regularly and listen to her detailed stories about the market, about my sister who struggles alone in the countryside, about how the tomatoes didn’t bear fruit this year because of the drought, and how our cat got bitten by the neighbor’s dog…
I find it uninteresting. It seems like nothing significant happens in her life. I feel a bit angry when she complains about her ailments, and I beg her to see a doctor, but she just waves it off. But I’m not a doctor—what do I know about what medicine she should take?!
Then, all of a sudden, Mom says sadly, “Who else can I complain to if not you…”
I go silent, holding the phone, realizing how unfair I’ve been. That her bright voice on the line, all her words, and our endless debates about who is right, her grumbling, and my excuses—all of it is our life. The one that exists right here, right now.
I jump in the car and drive to her “unexpectedly.” She manages to bake some flatbreads for me, while Dad offers me a glass of our homemade wine. I can’t drink the wine; I’m driving. He drinks alone, praising his wine. We laugh…
I wrap myself in Mom’s shawl; it’s a bit chilly. She quickly tosses firewood into the stove. And once again, I’m a carefree, happy little girl. Everything is delicious. Everything is warm. And there are no problems…
Mama, please live with me for a long, long time because I can’t imagine what it’s like not to hear your voice, how it would feel without your cooking and the warmth of the home you create… I don’t know how it feels to live without you…