Matt, thanks for sharing this beautiful piece with us. For years, my mother was the only person who would call me Matthew. It wasn't until I started writing that I claimed the moniker as my own. I consider myself privileged to read your writing as if I have discovered a little secret that no one else knows about. You have a genuine gift, one I wish for myself. Thank you for giving us this treasure.
Thank you, Matthew. The real gift is receiving comments such as yours and being read by people who connect with these fragments. Your time and sharing always so appreciated.
The intricate, microscopic detail of your text perfectly parallels the complexity of this evolving relationship. It was so dense I found myself looking away from the print several times to take a breath before diving back in. There are many powerful images here: "the limited-edition, hand-crafted vulgarities of promised happiness", "her naked feet", "the creak of body and frame disappear into the white of a new space in my mind."
The metaphor of the china cabinet just killed me: "That assortment of contrasting ugly objects inside. A place where order is lacking. I know there’s not much more now, beyond platitudes and pleasantries, beyond the usual questions and answers." Yikes. I see myself exposed in that. My own lovely, dutiful boy calls me every morning to make sure I survived the night. And all I can say, Matthew, is that there ARE much more than platitudes and pleasantries still in there, if a son would just ask the right questions... I learned a lot about YOU in reading this. Thank you.
Thanks so much, Sharron. In those days, Mum could phone 20 times over the course of an hour, and then not phone again or pick up the phone for the next 20 days. Exchanges were sometimes as simple as hello and goodbye: simple beats in her day. Our words were often platitude and pleasantry, but they always meant much more.
I understand. We older folks want so much to retain our independence; it is so painful to surrender and accept the fact that we need help. You were there for her and that is what counts.
We understand so much more than we used to. I wished she’d received as much love in her young life as she now receives in her older years. Here’s to sons who love: hers and yours. x
Ah, Matt; how your words resonate. Beautiful last sentence in your note 1, too 🩷
Thanks so much, Kate. x
Matt, thanks for sharing this beautiful piece with us. For years, my mother was the only person who would call me Matthew. It wasn't until I started writing that I claimed the moniker as my own. I consider myself privileged to read your writing as if I have discovered a little secret that no one else knows about. You have a genuine gift, one I wish for myself. Thank you for giving us this treasure.
Thank you, Matthew. The real gift is receiving comments such as yours and being read by people who connect with these fragments. Your time and sharing always so appreciated.
Such a finely tuned, intricate and familiar description of helplessly witnessing the ageing of our mothers.
Thanks so much for reading, Andrew.
The intricate, microscopic detail of your text perfectly parallels the complexity of this evolving relationship. It was so dense I found myself looking away from the print several times to take a breath before diving back in. There are many powerful images here: "the limited-edition, hand-crafted vulgarities of promised happiness", "her naked feet", "the creak of body and frame disappear into the white of a new space in my mind."
The metaphor of the china cabinet just killed me: "That assortment of contrasting ugly objects inside. A place where order is lacking. I know there’s not much more now, beyond platitudes and pleasantries, beyond the usual questions and answers." Yikes. I see myself exposed in that. My own lovely, dutiful boy calls me every morning to make sure I survived the night. And all I can say, Matthew, is that there ARE much more than platitudes and pleasantries still in there, if a son would just ask the right questions... I learned a lot about YOU in reading this. Thank you.
Thanks so much, Sharron. In those days, Mum could phone 20 times over the course of an hour, and then not phone again or pick up the phone for the next 20 days. Exchanges were sometimes as simple as hello and goodbye: simple beats in her day. Our words were often platitude and pleasantry, but they always meant much more.
I understand. We older folks want so much to retain our independence; it is so painful to surrender and accept the fact that we need help. You were there for her and that is what counts.
We understand so much more than we used to. I wished she’d received as much love in her young life as she now receives in her older years. Here’s to sons who love: hers and yours. x