“Mom! It’s me, your daughter.”

Lenten Reflections #9

February 27, 2026

Today, I will be home with my parents. While I am excited to see them, I am mentally preparing for the changes in them—what will be remembered (their childhood), forgotten (yesterday), or lost (glasses). Will their knees still hurt? Is Dad using the new ramp or still protesting and taking the stairs? Are they dehydrated? Sleeping through the night? Are gluten-free pancakes still the go-to for mom if she’ll eat? Is our legally blind Dad still swinging that axe to chop wood? Can he have more than one beer? And how many Dove bars can Mom have?

I know one thing remains the same—my conversation with mom every day:

“Mom! It’s me, your daughter.” This is what I holler each time I talk to my mom on the phone and every time I see her.

“What?” She’ll ask.

“It’s your daughter, Lucretia,” I say a little louder (the unused hearing aids on the counter are nestled between eyeglass cases and lens wipes, deeming themselves the most expensive earplugs Mom owns).

I emphasize the words daughter and Lucretia, and my words come out like a mantra, a prayer that maybe if I say it enough, she’ll open her eyes and exclaim, “Lucretia! There you are!” Like saying the Hail Mary in a Rosary, over and over, in the hope that maybe Mary herself is listening.

Instead, Mom asks, “What number daughter are you?”

“Fourth, Mom, and your favorite,” I say in my sing-song-jokey voice, holding the A in “faaaavorite.” She laughs and says, “Oh! Okay!” It’s not convincing, but I’ll take it.

I’ll record their changes on paper—while my head and heart take time to process and accept them.

What I’ve learned:

Distance can be a blessing and a curse—the heart may grow fonder, but it sure aches in the process.

Thanks for joining me.

I’m so glad you’re here,

Lucretia