my mother sits wrapped in an afghan in my kitchen. i’m painting at an easel nearby. she’s reading a karen kingsbury book. karen is her favourite author.

we share a bowl of sliced apples.

there is silence save for the flip, flip of pages turning and the scratching of brush against canvas. it’s a comfortable silence–like a bowl of chicken soup when you’re sick, or a hot water bottle.

eventually she says: “i love my mochas.”

mum has ‘mocha time’ every day at 10:30 a.m. it’s her favourite time of day. “i think i like them even more than i enjoy karen kingsbury books,” she adds thoughtfully. “in fact, i’d be hard-pressed to choose if someone asked me to decide between a mocha and a karen kingsbury book.”

mum surprises me every day. her head might be floppy; her legs wobbly; her hands unable to grip the book tight, but her words are flawless. her thoughts, achingly honest. real.

for a while she dozes over the pages, the book slipping from her tired, 56-year-old hand. then i creak my chair and she awakes. “mochas are supposed to be caffeinated,” she adds sleepily, “but for me they’re quite soporific.”

my paintbrush slows; i turn. “soporific?” i ask. “i don’t know that word.”

“i learned it when i was in grade school through Beatrice Potter’s books,” mum says. “it means, to mellow. to make quiet. sleepy.”

soon, she’s asleep again, and the book falls to the floor. i sit remembering… being homeschooled by mum until grade 5. being taught a new word every day, sometimes five. becoming passionate about language.

cancer may be robbing her of her mind, but my mum still teaches me, every day. in a language more unspoken than not. in more ways than she’ll ever know.