The magic of things

Photo by Arnold Antoo on Unsplash

My mother grimaces as she drags the walker slightly ahead. Her brand-new knees do not cope with her will. She buckles a bit, lets a silent sigh escape, but next moment she is back to dragging her walker. She will not show weakness in front of her kids. A millimetre, an inch, a foot — bit by bit she lets the walker guide her.

The walker understands pride. When she was young, her body glinted with white paint. When the doctor…