My mother is eighty-nine now. Two years ago, she moved in with me here in Oxford. Every morning, I hear her stirring around half seven. She then has a quiet chat with her elderly tabby, feeding him before preparing her breakfast. Sitting out on the sunny patio with her cup of coffee, she waits patiently until shes fully awake.
Next, she grabs her mop and sweeps through every room of the houseabout 2,600 square feet in total. She always insists this is her daily workout. If she’s in good spirits, shell cook something hearty, tidy up the kitchen, or do her usual stretching routine.
In the afternoons, she busies herself with her beauty ritualit changes constantly. Sometimes she rifles through her vast wardrobea treasure trove of fine clothes, nearly a collection fit for a museum. A few pieces she passes on to me, others go to friends, and some she even sells, like a true entrepreneur. I often tease her:
Mum, if youd invested all that money, youd be living it up right now!
She laughs, her eyes sparkling.
I adore my clothes. Besides, one day, all this will be yours. Your sisterbless hercouldnt style herself to save her life.
To get us both out of the house, we walk three miles around the lake about five times a week. Once each month, she hosts a girls night with her friendsa lively affair. Shes always got her nose in a book, forever rummaging through my library. Every day, she chats on the phone with her sister, whos ninety-one and living in Bath, coming to visit twice a year. (Incidentally, my aunt still works as an accountant for a private client.)
Aside from her beloved cat, the greatest joy in her life lately is the iPad I gave her last Christmas. Shes glued to it, reading up on her favourite authors and composers, catching up on the news, watching ballet, operaanything and everything. Near midnight, Ill sometimes hear her mutter:
I really ought to get to sleep, but YouTube just started that Pavarotti video on its own.
She and her sister truly hit the jackpot in the genetic lottery. Still, my mother never misses a chance to complain:
I look dreadful! she sighs.
I try to reassure her, gently:
Mum, at your age, most people would be long gone……and probably not half as glamourous.
She grins, her vanity gently restored, and reaches over to squeeze my hand. Outside, the cat stretches in a beam of late sun, and my mother sits tallelegant as ever, silver hair catching the light. Sometimes, I watch her as she gazes out at the garden, smiling at some private memory, and I realize: in her presence, each ordinary day gleams with possibility. The years have refined her like old silksofter, but no less luminous.
As darkness settles over Oxford, she closes her book and calls out, Heavens, Ive been up too late again! I hear laughter in her voice, ripe with mischief, echoing down the hallway. And for a moment, as I listen to her stories, her music, her laughter mingling with the mellow night, I imagine time slowinggranting us just a little more of this extraordinary, everyday magic.
