they have been the voices of my childhood. permanent fixtures at christmases and graduations and weddings. they could always be counted on for help on a history report or a slice of fresh bread after a long car ride.
my love for books is theirs. my love for cooking from them. my genes and my heritage and my family, all theirs.
and as the thought of the end pulls the grief from deep inside me, i wonder where my appreciation for the lives they represent has been these many years. the home videos make it clear that their love for me has not wavered from the beginning. they cheered as chubby cheeks struggled to blow out birthday candles, valiantly sat through painfully bad piano recitals, proudly displayed pimpled pictures through my awkward years.
even now, the familiar voice coming from within the now shrunken body speaks only love. acceptance. confidence.
it has taken me decades to recognize the depth of their love. years to see the ways they have sacrificed and lavished and given. and so i want my children to know them. i want a new generation to be loved by them the way i have been.
but as the end grows closer and wrinkled hands tremble and weaken, each visit proves to be an unexpected grace. a moment borrowed against stolen time to begin to serve the bodies that have so long tended to mine. to tend the hearts that have allowed mine to bloom.
to remember. and to promise not to forget.
