Like a Child

Mother lay in her bed half asleep, her chin tucked against her chest.  The heating unit hummed away blasting tropical temperatures into the room despite the ice and snow outside the window.  Mother stirred as we entered and reached out her hand to me.  So like a little child wanting to be picked up and cared for.

I sat on the bed beside her, and my husband sat in the chair beside the bed.  Today was a quite day.  Only one or two words formed slowly on Mother's lips, and even her smile was slow in coming.  But the iron grip of her good hand was as strong as ever.  She grabbed my hand and tucked it under her chin.  If I moved at all, she grabbed again and held my hand tight against her as if she needed the security of our presence.

So, we sang to her.  We sang Joy to the World, Jingle Bells, White Christmas, Hark the Harold Angels Sing in uneven harmony, and then she began to sing in a growling whisper, "We three kings...."  That was all she could manage, so we took up the song for her.  Her lips would form a word now and then, and she would look at us with the fascination of a child keeping her eyes on our lips and trying to figure out what would come next.  Then she closed her eyes, still gripping my hand, and there it was.  The faint half crooked smile like a baby just falling asleep.  She was happy and content.  Music, touch and a room the temperature of the tropics.  Merry Christmas, Mother.