I watched the nurse zip up my mother’s body from the other side of a glass wall. We were only supposed to visit virtually, but I fought for five minutes. Five sacred minutes.
My mother was 89, a retired teacher who survived polio, integration, and three miscarriages. She taught three generations to write their names with pride.
When the pandemic hit, the world labeled her “vulnerable.” They meant disposable. She meant legacy.
I held her hand through plastic. I told her she mattered. That her stories, her recipes, her fight—none of it would be forgotten.
Respect isn’t about words. It’s about action. We failed too many elders in those years. But not her. Not mine.