My mother’s arms pull me closer to her chest, holding me firmly but lovingly. We laugh at how my feet splash gently in the basin as I bob up and down on her knee. She picks up the big yellow sponge, heavy with water, to wash my feet. She tells me a story — how Jesus would wash the feet of his friends. His way of telling the world that he was there to serve others. I gaze at her and smile contentedly. This is home, where I belong.

​

Evening is approaching, bringing with it a breeze through the open back door. Its cooling presence is welcome in the heat of the kitchen, where a pot of stew bubbles away on the stove. All the delicious smells of my mother’s cooking mix together in the air. I close my eyes to discern each unique scent; lamb, oregano, thyme, the earthy smell of vegetables and a tantalising hint of cinnamon unveils what is baking in the oven — an apple pie made with buttery short crust pastry.

​

I can hear my siblings playing in the garden. I brim with excitement at the thought of telling them what tonight’s dessert will be… but that will have to wait. I want to savour precious time alone with my mother. Just the two of us.

​

A soapy, disinfectant smell rises from the basin and is quickly washed away by fresh water from the jug. While my mother scrubs my skin, I study the basin and jug with their matching Greek Meander pattern. Outside of wash time, they sit proudly on my mother’s chest of drawers; jug within basin, flowers within jug. Daffodils in spring, peonies in early summer and whatever wildflowers I uproot as gifts throughout the rest of the year. Every evening they are temporarily housed within another vessel, so that my sticky hands and grubby feet can be cleaned.

​

My mother sacrifices her favourite accoutrements gladly, willingly and with unconditional love. She doesn’t mind the spiderweb cracks that have weaved their way over the surface of the jug. She turns a blind eye to the chipped enamel of the basin. Time, use and clumsy hands have added features to the once pristine blue and white washbowl and jug. With a warm smile she lets me know she wouldn’t have it any other way.

​

Squeaky clean and wrapped in a fluffy cotton towel, I perch on a stool and watch as she meticulously washes my siblings next — one, two, three. Her love not divided, but multiplied. In those moments I unknowingly learn the parenting skills that I would later practice and cultivate on my own daughter.

​

Now that I am a parent I often think back on my childhood. I think of that little girl, sitting quietly and watching everything so intently, her legs dangling in the air. Her only concern; if she would ever have legs long enough to touch the ground. My mother knew I would. She believed I would grow, spread my wings and soar. Every time I bathe my own daughter, I am reminded with a deeper understanding of the love my mother had for me. My Meander-patterned jug takes pride of place on my mantelpiece; filled sometimes with daffodils, other times with peonies and occasionally with whatever wildflowers my daughter tugs from the garden.

By Marita Neely