The Privilege

We were on a shuttle bus at King Abdul Aziz airport, heading towards the plane. A lady sat next to me. We exchanged small questions, like where are you from, etc. When I told her I came with my mom and my sister she said, “My heart hurts so much whenever I saw an old man being led by his son or daughter. Or when an old lady is being wheeled around by her daughter. My mother died when I was three weeks old, my father followed when I was ten. I never had a chance to take care of my parents.” Then she started to cry. I didn’t know what to say so I just patted her shoulder and let her cry a bit. I tried to change the subject by talking about her children. She seemed to cheer up a bit when she talked about them. Then she went back to the subject of her mother.

She said, “I’m so sad. I don’t even know what my mother looked like.”

So I asked, “There’s no photo of her at all?”

She said, “No, I am seventy now so it was a very long time ago. In the thirties. We didn’t have cameras then.”

That I can help her with. I told her, “Sometimes when I look into the mirror, I see my mother’s face. Maybe you can do that too, Ma’am.”

She was quiet for a while. Maybe she was considering the possibility. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. I just hoped she would remember what I said the next time she looked at herself in the mirror. I hope she could see the image of her mother.

In her own little way, the old lady had reminded me that it is a privilege to take care of our parents. It may be hard, inconvenient, exhausting sometimes, but it’s not a burden, it’s an honour.