The Nights are Worst

Despite the comfort of her home a widowed mother sits alone reflecting on her life’s long road the joys and sorrows once bestowed. It’s not as though her life’s severe although the pain in joints and fear at night are constant evidence of her advancing years. Her days are full and she attends arranged activities, and friends stop by to pass the time and help hold back the solitude. Her parents passed, her spouse, as well, her siblings gone; her memory dwells, upon the friends she can’t renew, reminders of the life she knew. Two sons she bore and nurtured ‘til maturity but worries still, about their fate, their hopes, their fears afraid to seem to interfere. Her children visit when they can, the elder, almost daily, and maintains the house and car as well though not as prompt as she might like. She understands, each has his life to live as they see fit, but strife, conflicting independence needs tear at their old and ill healed wounds. The loss of independence stings, brought home by far too many things like cutting lawns or washing floors or even walking with her dog. Her strength declines, her balance fades, and friends grow fewer by the day.” The worst of growing old she said— “the unrelenting loss”. She counts her blessings every night and they are manifold, but slight comfort from her melancholy thoughts when she’s alone. Old memories, so treasured when they’re shared with family and friends are bittersweet when seen alone, her loved ones long since gone. “My bible and my dog are there as constant friends against despair that often overwhelms, at night when solitude was once delight— but now, I’m just alone.” The morning lifts her nights despair a smile exchanged with neighbors where she leaves a loaf of bread home-made and last nights cares begin to fade. And who’s to say she does not play a role of greatness every day by bringing kindness to the lives of those who struggle to survive.