My 93 year old mom is staying with us presently. She had a series of falls in her house. We are happy to have her here. She has stories to tell that we’ve heard a hundred times. Stories about fleeing China when the war wasn’t going their way. Stories about betting at majhong when mother forbade it. Stories about being the first graduate class in the wild, wonderful, new field of biochemistry. Imagine the excitement of the time: the God-like promise to edit life itself, to cure cancer and the common cold.

She helps cut vegetables for dinner. Occasionally she will sing some ancient Chinese song from her youth, her voice creaking but still strong. She will innocently raise some deep, old slight her father leveled at her mother, his second of three overlapping wives. Mom loves her mom and defends her fiercely. “And I’ve forgiven him,” she says unforgivingly.

We don’t know how long she will be with us, but she is in constant need of care and attention. Sometimes it is to help her get up from the couch to her walker. Sometimes she would like to eat something. She has a great appetite. She is a fruit monster. Bananas, nectarines, plums evaporate near her.

Sometimes she is a little confused about what time of day it is, or who is who in a picture. We have lots of 4x6 prints, hundreds of them in little plastic boxes. “Who’s that dancing with you?” “When did you take that picture?” “I don’t remember taking that picture!” We write notes on post-its to help her remember things.

August 7, 2026. Tomorrow we will visit the doctor at 4:00pm.

Taking care of mom makes me ponder the abstract notion of “care”. It feels like a solid mass, but pliable. It has dimensions of Space, Time, and Effort. When in a work mode, focused on a task or a driven outcome, the care shape is pointed and sharp. First do this, then that, and finally wield that edged blade to carve the world to your liking.

Taking care of my mom makes my care soft and blunt. I accept what comes in this moment, and the next moment, and the next. A need arrives, then this one, then another one. There is scant need for an agenda. The agenda appears without Effort, with minimal pointed care. Yes occasionally more care is needed. A doctor’s visit has a Space, a Time, and some Effort down the stairs. A doctor’s visit is more pointed. Sometimes care is pointed. Today my care is round.