I’m writing this Phylosophy late…
…on a Friday night after an exhausting week.
My eyelids are heavy. Tonight’s dreams are loading. I can hear my youngest boy blowing his nose for the tenth time – a nightly stall tactic, for my night owl. And after weeks of preferring a sleep-in to 15 paltry, powerful minutes on the yoga mat, my lower back and I are barely on speaking terms. But we’ll kiss and make up over a downward dog in the morning.
I spent the afternoon with my 96-year-old mother. Memories stuttered, felt fluent, then splintered again. She was a child bride. Barely 16. Her first groom, 32. It wasn’t love. I’ve heard this story so many times but today, the age difference disgusted me.
I helped Mum put on a new pair of sandals. Black, soft leather with gold buckles. Hush Puppies. She smiled, delighted, before padding around her tiny living room, a little unsteady on her feet, like a toddler.
I turned the plastic pages of a small photo album she keeps close, my mother’s youthful beauty in an ancient city beamed at us in black and white. On another page is a scrap of cardboard where Mum’s written a poem in black ink for my late father, I search for you everywhere…
We closed the album.
“Life’s a labyrinth,” she said, her words heavy with a mystery I pretended to understand.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed and mum’s eyes filled.
We hugged. I wanted to hold on forever.
© Phyllis Foundis 2026