Appreciate their moms: a touching story

Цените своих мам: трогательная история

How often do we grow up and forget all that we were doing our moms. We become serious adults, who don’t care how the parents live, and just annoying excessive concern. Read the story, call my mom and tell me how much you love her.

My mother 73. She puts me pears and says apologetically: — They are not very beautiful to look at, but very tasty! And of your without chemicals, you love pears, go ahead.

I’ll take it. And take fermented baked milk. Because I love fermented baked milk. And she’s in the fridge “happens there is one jar, you only leave the day after tomorrow, a couple of times to have dinner”.

Go out, get in the car, food.
Again, I was going anywhere. Rushing through the cities and villages. Change cities and time zones. Call to mom when we can. After all business. After coffee with my friends and manicure in the salon. Bring something tasty, quickly asking about the cases, eagerly listening to – well what their dad doing ? – sarcastic about her needless and irrelevant from my point of view anxiety. And gone again – running their business.

Mom will tell me that I go naked, not Kuta throat, so the cough and not pass. I will say that I work a lot, and it is time to calm down. I agree that life is complex, and it does not matter if I can’t come.

And we live 40 kilometers from each other. I’m calling her regularly and listening to her slow and detailed stories about the market, about a sister who finds it difficult one in the village, that parsley again after the rain increased and it would be necessary to cut, and that the tomatoes are over, even green what a drought was, and the cat Murat lost his eye knows where I climbed…

I’m not interested. And I think that in her life nothing important going on. And I’m a little mad when she complains to me on his sores, and I ask her to please go to the doctor, and she shrugs, and I’m not a doctor, I don’t know what medication you need to drink in the end?!

But my mom suddenly a plaintive way of saying, — Well, who do I complain if not to you?…

And I freeze with the phone in hand and realize I’m a rare bastard. And that this her clear and loud voice on the phone, and all her words and phrases, and our eternal disputes on who is right, and the showdown for no reason, and its notation and my teaching – all that is our life. TA. which is here and now…

I’m frustrated and going to her “unplanned”, it is time to fry me some fish, dad cut watermelon and wants to pour “new wine.” Wine can’t, I’m driving. He drinks one, praises. We laugh.

I wrap up in mom’s jacket, Zabkowice. Mom grasped, running to turn on the oven to “warm a bit the kitchen.” And again, little girl, where everything is in order. And everything is delicious. And heat. And no problem…

Mom-mom, you only live long, because I don’t know how it is, not to hear your voice on the telephone, because I don’t know how it is, without your kitchen, where you feed me dinner and try to keep in warmth…

The Author — Zoya Kazanzhi

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