My grandmother had nine children, the last of which was born in 1948.
She mothered and raised and shh'd and rocked through decades of hard living.
Birthing eight of those children on a farm far from help, in a time with no cell phones or biscuit tins, much less microwaves.
By the time I was old enough to know her, "she" was slipping away. Wisps of the woman she once was.
We lived with her as live-in help through my high school years and I sat beside her as she rocked a baby doll and hummed.
I held her fragile and light hand as we stared out the window. I marveled at who she was and all she had seen.
She has been gone a while now but I feel connected to her in mothering.
And motherhood... The journey that it is. The words no one speaks and the secrets no one tells.
I would have loved to have really leaned into her knowledge, learned from her faith and gentleness... How ever did you do it? The further I get on my journey the more I marvel at hers.