There is something to be said when a person gives me food for nothing in return.  Gives me nourishment, not only for my body, but for my mind.  The giving rests easy on my soul.  I am thankful for Uncle Pippi giving Mom, my sisters, and me, the vegetables from his garden in our Darien.  Do you know how giving that is, a gift from the dirt?

The tires of my truck roll over Darien roads.  I drive through town with my eyes practically shut, from Stamford, where I live, to Norwalk, where Mom has lived for the past eighteen years.  She is a part of my daily life.

We run errands in our Darien – to the pharmacy, where I get her medication prescriptions, a thrift store, where we check out bargain deals for knick-knacks, a consignment shop, to buy clothes for my children, to Post Corner Pizza, where I lunch with Mom.  Mom, the aging mother that I love, me, the Italian dutiful daughter, parading out our simple lives.

Back at her house, she wraps foil over a tin pie plate of my favorite Italian dish, eggplant parmigiana, and gives it to me as I sit at the kitchen table, fidget with a pill cutter to halve medications and sort them in a pill box for the week.  I go through her mail, take the bills to pay later, wash the dishes in the sink.

“Heat the eggplant up for supper,” said Mom, as I ready to head home.  She is thankful with her food.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I take her gift, knowing that I will not gobble it down, but throw it in the garbage when I get home because it won’t taste good.  She can’t cook like she used to, thinks she can, wants to, because it is who she is.

My stomach, full of dirt-fear for my aging mother, shudders as I gather dirt-courage for the unknown future that I worry about.  With my weaknesses, I try to firmly believe that God has chosen me for this role.  I can take the past’s beatings and betrayals, because Dear, Sweet, Jesus is in me.  I am thankful for that.  I am thankful for my words.