ma mere

My mom slowly eased one foot after the other down the front stairs. Often it was hard to remember she was in pain and needed knee surgery, but as she hobbled around her parked car, I remembered. My mom; short and plump, solid and loud and always so there in our lives, seemed vulnerable and small. She got to the driver's side door and looked up to smile at me. A gust of wind lifter her hair off her face and up off her shoulders. Hair blowing, a smile on her face, she gave a small wave. For a moment, there was her young self, looking careless and happy. She slipped into the driver's seat and started up the driveway. Her car disappeared up the drive then turned at the end to go up the street. I stood at the door looking up the driveway where she had left.