Ima

Almost every vacation, I would take the opportunity to visit the oldest person in my social circle. Everyone calls her Ima (mother in local dialect).

I have known her since I was in high school. We belonged to the same church ministry, though active in different sub-groups. I feared her. Her domineering stature is enough to shut the most opinionated of individual. But Ima is like an onion. The outer layers may cause discomfort; the process of tearing off is tedious and is gradual. Once the true self is revealed, beauty overflows. Synonymously Ima.

A day before my flight back to reality, I knocked on her gate. She was not home; I was offered a sit in her living room. She arrived on a wheelchair. We talked. We ate breakfast. We caught up with each other. She may not be as capable physically, but the Ima that I have known within the callous shell remains. She still wears that innocent smile. The kid in her 93 year old body still listens, her eyes glistening. She is still present to the person she interacts with,  like before. Her body tires, but her sympathy doesn't. The same old Ima never changed.