a mother’s horizon of sight

Next to my nose, a pot bubbles with sour cabbage.

My hands quickly “chop” the carrots and peel the potatoes.

And while I usually cook without much enthusiasm, at times like this—I twirl in the kitchen, apron on, almost in a dance step.

Until when?

The secret is simple—I’m cooking the favorite meal of a child I haven’t seen for a week.

Not just haven’t seen—

I had sent him off to a Scout camp.

“He’s big.

Almost taller than me.

A 13-year-old boy.

Serious.

Capable of taking care of himself.

Responsible…,” I kept repeating in my mind all week.

But then, when I watched the weather forecasts and sighed about it being too hot for shorts and a T-shirt,

I immediately remembered that big boy, almost taller than me,

running around in a military uniform and leather boots.

Will he overheat?

When the weather alerts warned of a storm…

Loving the weather as I usually do, I stood by the window, heart in my throat, worrying about how my “big, responsible” child was doing in the forest. Under a tree.

Is he scared?

While arranging my own lunch and enjoying a delicious dinner, not a day went by without thinking of my “independent 13-year-old” boy.

Is he hungry?

Not the first time.

Not the last.

When I send a child off for a week,

I stay at home with a third of my heart tucked into the backpack sneaking out the door.

All those times, I remember my mother’s words:

“Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

And truly:

When they’re little and we sigh because caring for them feels like you need an extra pair of eyes installed— it seems like the hardest time of all.

When will they grow up? When will they be independent?

When will they be able to take care of themselves?—buzzes in your mind.

When they do grow up and vanish beyond a mother’s horizon…

You realize again that shepherding little ones around the yard was actually easy.

When the questions:

Isn’t it too hot/too cold?

Is he hungry?

Is he scared?

Does it hurt?

…can be answered just by glancing at them.

But when you can no longer cast that glance,

the same questions—“Child, are you okay?”—

don’t go away.

They just become rhetorical.

And pinch your heart. Invisible little pinches.

For mothers.

Cooking the favorite meals of children they’ve missed, almost dancing in the kitchen.

Homes scented with sauerkraut.

And lightning and thunder seem cozy and romantic again.

When everyone, small and big, fits into a mother’s horizon.

Delicious morning coffee,
V.