To moms, about moms

And if you love them every day and call them your whole world,
then when the temperature spikes and a salvo of coughs begins—
And the eyes that usually sparkle with joy and mischief are “clouded” by illness…
You realize you can love even stronger.

Nothing else seems important.
Not sleepless nights.
Not missed workdays.
Not the tuft of unwashed hair sticking out at the back of your head.
Not the unpleasant little “blemish” you notice in the mirror.

“Give me the illnesses,” Mom would say, stroking my forehead, once again warm from a fever.

And I, snug in my fluffed-up bed and tasting the menu of delicious dishes drifting from the kitchen, didn’t understand why being sick was scary.

The only thing I feared was the spinning phone dial at night, when both Dad and Mom exchanged a knowing look and winked, “call,”
and soon, before me appeared the summoned company in white coats.

And then Aunt Saulė.
Who would “visit” Mom when I was ill.
“Over” coffee.

And somehow, appearing in the doorway, armed with Mom’s boiled syringe,
and in no way living up to her name “Saulė,” she would “cloud” my cozy sickbed
with the question:
“So, which side shall we let today?”
Before she finished the sentence, I’d hurl my little neck across the whole apartment.

More?
Being a “patient” meant more love, care, delicious food, coloring books, longer bedtime stories…

And “attendance”—when Grandma or Aunties rushed to see the poor little patient,
they’d sit down with gifts for me again.

And I, in my little bed, like a stork in its nest, would wait, head held high.

And Mom worried.
She’d rush from work to check on me.
Call on the landline.
More often than seems possible.
Take me to little massages and inhalations.
Then, at the pharmacy, buying the desperately craved glucose tablets with vitamin C.
And she was ready to do everything the doctor advised—and then twice as much.
Or maybe even three times.

“As long as you get better quickly,” she would nod.

Back then, I didn’t understand her.
It’s nothing, just a “bit” sick.
But now.
Loving.
Spoiling.
Holding in my arms.
And not knowing what else to do—what else to make, just so they’ll eat something, drink more,
and smile more widely.
And for their eyes to brighten…

I understand.

And I whisper into their little ear:
“Give me all your illnesses…”
So that you don’t have to suffer.

For Moms.
V.