I was at work. Dark had just tumbled over the world. A grey haired, loam-skinned, purposed-filled, older woman approached the counter. A younger, but older gentleman trailed behind her. Neither was in the 1%. Or the 75%. Smile lines creased the older woman’s face and her hands spoke of honest work. With an energy that spoke of deep reservoirs probably carved by prayer and summers watching over the children that played in the street, she requested a blood pressure check for her son.

Her son. About 40. Handsome face that bore scars that seemed out of place. A body that hinted at weight lost but skin that still missed it. Ankles that stretched the socks. An unkempt blank look that whispered of some mental shortcomings. ┬áHe removed a couple layers in order for me to access his arm. The faded sweatshirt cutoff at the elbows. The checkered shirt that looked like it had been used for lawn work, then transitioned into a wardrobe favorite. He didn’t say much. Nothing actually. I would ask questions about his health history and he would look expectantly at his mother and she would provide the answers smoothly – as if they had practiced this on many an occasion.

The blood pressures returned high. A worried look crossed his mother’s face. The look disappeared then returned like a child who won’t stay outside. Soft words were spoken, questions were asked, then answered; recommendations were made. Nerves were smoothed and a calm settled over us.

The climate of the whole conversation was mother’s concern. Income brackets be damned – A good mother is a good mother; and it humbled me to be able to see love in action.

Thank you moms.