I can see her there, stirring that pot of something bubbly, just like me, on this summer afternoon. I can see her in her old, worn apron, wrapped tightly around the front of her waist. She is chopping cabbage in the steam of cooking stew with a restless blonde toddler winding around her left calf.
I can feel her gentle hand on mine as I plop spongey bread dough into a ceramic pan. She sings with me softly as I rock my plump baby, his hair sweaty from my hot chest. I can feel her next to me as I dig my hands into the earth, unveiling potatoes as golden as sunshine, wiping dirt from their skin and my brow.
I can hear her whisper as I walk down the road in the evening with five children in tow, the small one on my hip, the oldest running ahead. The dog panting to the rhythm of our footsteps against the gravel.
She was a mother to my mother and her mother’s mother and the one before her.
She is the woman, who hundreds of years ago, still woke to the cry of her baby and put him to her breast. Fell asleep with her hand in the palm of her lover’s. Answered the whine of her young ones, “When is it time to eat?” Cleaned dirt from the floor and the cheeks of her children with her spit and her thumbs and the purpose of her heart. Giggled with her girlfriends as they cleaned up after mealtime. Begged God to protect these precious souls in her home.
I can feel her beside me, pulling me up, cheering me on.
For in all that has changed, nothing has at all.