in common

The faithful little dog barks continually at the door, a frantic warning. Watery eyes search nervously through the window. Holding up her lunch, I smile big and remind her who we are.
After 98 years of use, her eyes and ears grow tired, unreliable. She hesitates, then lets us in. I can sense her anxiety and nervousness as I place food on the table and chatter loudly about her pet, the weather, coaxing her to eat lunch while its hot. It's been a week since we were here but it may as well be years, for the ability to recall events comes and goes. Today, it is gone, so she remains guarded. Caleb and the old chihuahua stay near the door, eyeing each other warily. On this warm Summer morning her thin arms are folded up tight, wrapped defensively in quilted flannel. Finally I put my hand on Caleb's head to say good-bye, when she suddenly lights up with pleasure.
"Is this your boy?!"
Yes! I respond, delighted to see her suddenly animated. "My youngest, of three."
Rasping voice responds with a contented sigh. "My youngest looked like him..." Her story comes out long and slow. I watch her mouth twist, and see how the long days alone steal this ability also, how the tongue wrestles anew; unaccustomed to speaking aloud.
I wait, and am rewarded with her mothers heart spilled out drop by drop into my hands, the gift of looking down into a mirror of feeling.
Three daughters and then, the gift of her son. So smart, such a treasure, this boy-her love for him, fierce. She stares at Caleb and the longing for her own little boy is palpable. Lips trembling, she fights for words to express her helplessness.
Her baby is so sick now, and what can she do? First the cancerous brain tumor-then the stroke. Now he cannot move, he cannot talk. She wonders if he can even hear her say she loves him? Suddenly she is in my arms and through my tears, I am reassuring her...of course, he hears you. Of course he knows of your love. Her white head buried deeply in my shoulder; she stops crying. Patting her back gently I hear the tired whisper...
"...he's only seventy-four."