brushstrokes..

It’s late here..I'm tired from the drive down to Morwell today but want to put down something before I go to bed. Something about mum and being with her on a wet November afternoon. She’d been out at an activities day organised by the health services at her local council.. She looked tired but better than she's been for some months.. We had a look at the garden.. I swept the path that was covered in rain-soaked pink fuchsia buds and made tea for the two of us.. An omelette which she seemed to enjoy. We watched the news as we ate and saw a boy from Morwell take a hat-trick at the Gabba.. I still don't know how much she actually sees.. Before I left to go home, as we stood together in the kitchen she picked up a brush and did my hair. . It’d been raining through the afternoon and the back of my head had gotten wet. . as she pushed the bristles through, so lightly that the ends flicked up around the sides of my ears, I remembered how she dried and combed my hair when i was young, how safe i felt tucked into her chest, how calm and strong her hands were and as I stood there at the bench trying with all my might to stay in the moment stay in the real and now with her at 92 and me touching 60, stay in this holy moment and hear her telling me  I have good hair and  I feel so loved, so young..