It was her last visit to Florida.
It was Christmas time.
I had just moved into a new home with a new partner and his two children. A blended family, holiday chaos, out of town visitors and an emotionally unstable host don't make for peace at the dinner table or any other time for that matter.
I was judgmental and cross with her as she sat on the patio smoking like the recent wildfires in Texas. I badgered her to eat out, to do some tourist things, to participate in the holiday merriment.
She chose to be idle. To relax, and to watch and to just be.
And as she silently watched, she must have grimaced at the over-reaching, the auto-pilot induced stress, and the insensitivity playing out in front of her.
I'm sure it made her sad. I don't remember seeing many smiles on her face. I don't remember even a moment where I hugged her or connected with the love between a mother and a daughter.
Despite my attempts to keep these painful memories at bay, they wash ashore from time to time, stinging like salt water does to an open wound. A harsh word from a loved one, a sense of irrelevance cast my way, a rebuke of a well intentioned effort, forces me to cringe at a mirror image of my behavior toward her.
I don't recall the Christmas gifts that were exchanged that year. But I do know if I could relive the past, my gift to her wouldn't be wrapped in a box with a bow. Instead, it would be an offering of kindness and patience, and a conscious attempt at acceptance that is borne of love and respect.
