She sat with afternoon sunlight rendering her royal blue cashmere cardigan and blue/apple green silk scarf into sapphires and emeralds. Or maybe her glow came from Day 3 of her only son's visit. Her eyes shone with joy and attempted attention to her son's fingers and lips as he tweaked her computer files, shortcuts, and apps to make her 96th year easier and cybersafer.
As grateful as I was for my brother's tech help and as hard as I concentrated on remembering all this new information so that I could help Mom after my brother went home, I zoned out. Had to leave. My techno-weenie brain was full.
On my drive home, a conversation replayed in my head. Mom had looked at me brightly and shared that when I had e-mailed that I wanted to bake cookies with her, she had immediately sent her caregiver to the store to buy all the ingredients. She was so excited. I was dumbfounded.
I wondered if someone else had expressed a desire to bake Christmas cookies with Mom. Who was the e-mail from? Me? I didn't remember saying that I wanted to bake cookies. Can't even imagine it; I don't have the patience required to bake cookies. Plus, it's not part of my childhood history with Mom. Back scratches, yes. Head rubs, yes. Cookie baking, no.
Finally, in the car on my way home, it clicked. I had copied Mom on an e-mail I had sent to my brother to ask him if while he was in town, would he show me how to clear cookies from Mom's computer.
Awww ... Mom's eagerness to bake Christmas cookies with me touched my heart. Her confusion concerns me, yes, but mostly, I want to bake cookies with my mom.
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