About beets, sandwiches, and moms.
Yesterday I was visiting Mom.
As she sees me off, she leads me down into the cold basement, where her homegrown vegetables are neatly “lined up” and jars prepared for winter are “stacked high.”
Handing us—my sister and me—the jars “dedicated” to us, filled with all kinds of vegetables, she beams:
“This year—it’s a true beetroot paradise,” she smiles, pulling a box closer to show the grandchildren the monstrously large beets that grew in the garden.
Beets? Not even close!—we all shake our heads—more like little piglets, looking more like heavyweight pumpkins than beets.
Today.
For lunch, I open a jar of beets I brought back yesterday from Mom’s treasure-filled cellar.
And there…
Packed inside are those same beets.
Beets? Not even that! You couldn’t even call them “little beets” as a term of endearment.
From the jar meant for me, I spear tiny, carefully peeled, baby-sized beets—smaller than my fingernail…
And I think—maybe a mother’s love isn’t measured in beets.
But imagining how she peeled those berry-sized little beets and carefully arranged them into jars just for us…
I can’t help but say that a mother’s love and care is worth at least the kind of awe we felt yesterday seeing those pumpkin-sized beets—while savoring salads made from these specially chosen, berry-like little ones.
Mothers love quietly.
They secretly remove a stain from your favorite blouse as if by magic.
They cut you the richer slice of homemade cake.
They gather up the “possessions” you’ve accumulated and gift you an extra hour of sleep in the morning.
They appear with a cup of coffee.
They pull a dish out of the oven—the very one you once casually mentioned you “really missed.”
The bed somehow “makes itself,” and over there—the pillow is already fluffed.
Monday is a long day for Dominykas.
After school, he has two activities, with only a short break in between to get from one to the other.
Knowing he won’t have time to eat, I catch him in the doorway after school and hand him a sandwich I’ve just wrapped at home.
“Mom, you didn’t have to,” he smiles, as he packs the sandwich into his backpack.
Driving away, I smile to myself.
Yes.
Mothers love quietly.
In dwarf-sized, carefully peeled little beets and in quietly “slipped” freshly made sandwiches.
For Moms.
V.
