A Message for a Single Mother

Well into her 80s, Oma shuffled along with her cane everywhere she went. Tap, tap, tap. Everyone heard Oma coming before they saw her.

She always carried peppermint candies in the pockets of her cardigan, handing them out to the children at church, in her neighborhood, at the corner grocery store she faithfully visited twice a week — wherever little people crossed her path. She’d reach down to pat their tousled hair and patiently admire their artwork or an interesting rock they’d found in the dirt.

It was her custom to walk to the park on Saturday mornings and feed the pigeons. Not because she particularly liked birds, but simply because it gave her something to do.One Saturday morning, Oma sat to rest on a bench next to a young woman, who seemed to sink into the oversized black trench coat she wore. The woman sat quietly watching a small boy pluck dandelions from the tall grass near the playground. He was a charming, dark-haired boy with ruddy cheeks and eyes that almost disappeared when he broke out into a smile, which he did every time he looked over to where the woman sat.

Oma smiled at the young woman beside her.

“Your son?” she asked, pointing over to the boy.

The woman glanced at Oma, then back to the boy. She nodded.

“Sweet, beautiful boy you have. You are blessed to have so many years left to enjoy him,” Oma said, “Ah, how I miss my own Jacob and Lucas.”

The mother’s eyes remained fixed on her young son and his growing bouquet of yellow flowers but shifted her body slightly toward Oma.

“His father left a year ago,” she started. “Never looked back. Not a phone call. Has never offered a dime to help. Just disappeared,” she said, sighing. “It’s just Ethan and me making our way now. Some days it’s just too much. Today is one of those days.” Her voice trailed off.

Oma wasn’t expecting such a forthright response, but it didn’t shock her. She was too old to be shocked by much in life anymore. She slid a few inches closer to the mother. Pulling her pink wool cardigan tighter against the morning chill, Oma looked down and noticed she had forgotten to sew a missing button back on her cardigan. She hoped the woman didn’t notice. Oh, well, she shrugged. I’m not out to make a fashion statement this morning anyway.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Oma said. “Sounds like you have quite a load to shoulder, caring for you and your little boy’s needs all on your own.” She paused a moment. “You know, someday, that boy is gonna be right proud of you for all your sacrifices.”

The woman looked at her then, as if noticing Oma for the first time. Her eyes sunk low on her face and were outlined with dark circles from the hardships she bore.

“No,” she said, “He’ll probably grow up resenting me for missing out on things that other kids have. He’ll blame me for never having enough time for him and be too embarrassed to bring his friends home to the shabby apartment we live in,” she huffed and turned away. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “not sure why I’m even telling you…all this.” She hung her head, twisting her coat belt in her hands.

Oma reached a frail, knobby hand over and patted the woman’s, still entwined in the belt. The woman’s hands stilled at the touch. She lifted her eyes to Oma’s.

“You’re thinking only about material things,” Oma began. “Your little Ethan may not understand everything as he grows up, but what he’ll remember is how you sang to him while he took his bath at night, and the bedtime stories you read together. He’ll look back over the long nights you sat up nursing him through sickness and the way you cut his sandwiches into heart shapes.

When he’s older, he will think about his momma putting little notes on his nightstand that he found the next morning before school and the grass stains you scrubbed out of his favorite jeans. He won’t forget the extra pork chop he had on his dinner plate while you had only one and when you walked to work instead of riding the bus because he needed money for a baseball uniform.

That’s what our sons remember us for, my dear — that we gave them what mattered, not what we lacked” she said. “By the way, I’m Oma,” she ended with a gentle hand squeeze and flashed a broad smile of bright, white dentures.

The mother smiled back, tears pooling in her eyes.

“You sound like you’ve been there,” she said.

Oma nodded and turned to watch as the boy headed their way. Her voice was soft, “Yes, I was right where you are. Crying on a park bench while my two boys ran around playing in the grass without a care in the world. But nobody ever told me what I’ve told you. Would’ve made my burden a whole lot lighter if they had.”

Ethan trotted over, two muddy fists full of cheerful yellow dandelions. He proudly thrust them up toward his mother.

“For you, momma.”The young mother pulled her gloves off and reached for her son’s gift. She would use every moment they had together to give him what she would never be short on – her love. She couldn’t give him trips to Disneyland or a brand new bike, at least not right now. But she had a wealth of much more valuable gifts to share with her son. For that she was grateful.

Turning to introduce her son to Oma, she noticed that Oma was already walking off down the path leading out of the park.

“Oma!” she called and waited for Oma to turn.

“Thank you!”

Oma gave a little wave and blew a kiss from her curled, wrinkled hand.

Blowing a kiss, she turned and chuckled, at my age.

Her cardigan had loosened again. She pulled it snug against her and tried to remember where she’d left that missing button.

I need to remember to put some extra peppermints in my pockets this next Saturday. Might get to meet little Ethan, she thought.

The tap, tap, tap of Oma’s cane echoed down the long path as she shuffled home.