People notice that I watch Mom a lot.
I watch when she walks from room to room. I watch when she sits down and when she stands back up. I watch when she goes into the bathroom, and I wait right outside the door until she comes back out. I don’t need to follow her everywhere. I just need to know she’s okay.
I didn’t always watch this closely. I trusted the rhythm of our days. Mom would leave and come back. She would rest and then move again. Things made sense. But after she was gone for so long, after she came back different and tired in ways I could feel, something in me shifted. Watching became part of my job.
I don’t watch because I’m scared all the time. I watch because I care. I notice small things. Changes in how she moves. Changes in how she sounds. Dogs are good at that. We don’t need words to understand when something feels off or when someone needs a little extra attention.
Sometimes Mom smiles and tells me she’s okay. I believe her, but I still watch. Just in case. Just to be sure. Being nearby feels right. Being aware feels important.
Humans don’t always realize that love can look quiet. It doesn’t always bark or cry or demand attention. Sometimes love looks like sitting still, eyes open, heart focused, ready if needed.
I watch Mom because she’s, my person. Because she takes care of me. Because she came back when I was afraid she wouldn’t. Watching her is how I say thank you. Watching her is how I love her.
And when I finally curl up and rest, it’s because I know she’s safe.
Love,
Vixen