Do you know the feeling of being watched, but when you turn around, no one is there? As it turns out, in my case, someone is there, though often out of sight.  Mom watches me.  Her eyes follow me around the kitchen as I cook or bake or clean up.  She watches me from the kitchen window, or from my bedroom window, or from her recliner-side window, as I do the yardwork: “I saw you pulling so many weeds!”  Serving dinner to her in her tv-watching, needlepoint stitching, word puzzle circling recliner takes several trips—first the mango juice in a glass with ice, then the salad or fruit or toast, then the main dish—and her eyes seek to fix upon mine with each approach, as if begging me to beam back the affirmation and connection she craves in her new loneliness.  And I just cannot do it.  Like staring into a bright light, I turn my discomfited gaze away and perfunctorily do the duty of delivery.  I have told her, gently, that I cannot be the antidote to her loneliness.  Jeanette, Carolyn, Megan, Barbara, Deanna, and others do their best to fill that function.  I serve her meals, make home repairs, answer correspondence, keep the yards beautiful, shampoo the carpets, resolve her computer and internet difficulties, manage the finances, fill the pantry and fridge, and generally problem-solve.  But I am here.  And I am doing my best.  And we do talk some.  And we watch tv together.

(Image by Michaela 💗 from Pixabay)