She’s perched like a bird, sitting on the porch in the afternoon sunshine. Traffic whizzes past, hurried drivers taking little notice of the little lady in a pink sweatshirt and over-sized designer shades, scrunched in a wheelchair at the corner of the porch.
Birds sing from lofty perches in barren branches, but the first pale, pink blooms hint of the spring to come. A ribbon of sweet drips from the tilted cone. She takes another bite, melting cream smearing across her cheek.
I watch my mom, study the frail and wrinkled hands; a halo of silvery hair, bright in the sun; wisps catch the breeze and dance. She is earnest in her endeavor, concentrating on her cone. Tiny drops drip to the porch, shiny pearls in the sunlight.
Like a child, my mom enjoys these simple pleasures; making the most of dwindling days. I marvel at her childlike glee. She is reminding me to savor the sweetness, to remember the daily joys: An ice cream cone, a songbird and sunshine, and the promise of spring.