The Anniversary
The last time I saw my mother, she walked me to the door to say goodbye. Then, before closing it again, she waited until I disappeared down the funnel of the stairwell. My mother was never one for parting phrases,
The daughter recalled her last visit to her parents' home, where she was greeted by her mother standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her to disappear down the stairwell. The mother, who was typically reserved and did not like to draw attention to herself, had a question for her son upon their parting. The question, "Will you visit us again?" was unusual and unexpected, given the frequency of the daughter's visits.
The daughter, who had been visiting her parents every two weeks since leaving home at the age of twenty, felt obligated to visit her parents, even though no reason existed to doubt that the routine would continue indefinitely. The mother's question seemed out of place, as she was the one who had given the daughter life and cared for her throughout her life.
The daughter understood that the question was an instinctive act from her mother, who had spent her entire life cleaning, serving, and obeying her husband, both at home and in bed. Despite the passage of years and the creation of an impenetrable wall between them, the daughter still remembered her mother's small but significant act of asking a question that held more meaning than it seemed.
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