My mom is 89 years old. She’s in a rehab facility.
It’s hard for her to move, but she’s moving.
It’s hard for her to get out of her chair, but she gets the job done (after a few preparatory pushes).
It’s hard for her to walk, but every day she walks just a little farther.
It’s easy for her to joke with the medical types about smoking cornsilk as a kid with her friends behind the barn.
It’s easy for her to laugh about her “sin twister,” a lady in the facility who was wearing an identical housecoat to my mom’s, and whose birthday is one day after my mom’s.
It’s easy for her be silly with a tech who shares the same name as me.
I think her laughter, silliness, jokes, and desire will get her moving, out of the chair, and back to her apartment.
I am grateful for my mother’s body.
