Scrape a knee, bump an elbow and Mother was the person to go to.

She had a ready supply of Bactine and Band-aids, drops for swimmer’s ear, and needles for splinters. No matter how badly I banged myself up, she always made me feel better.

Her healing properties didn’t end when I stopped falling off bikes and out of trees. Any number of times I returned home to Mother to heal from more damaging injuries, the internal kind, the broken heart.

After my marriage to Dennis hit the rocks—the first time—I headed home, to my parents’ house in Oak Park on the western fringe of Raleigh. I remember how comforting it was to be back in that cozy split-level brick house, back in my old bed, surrounded by all the things that mattered, that made sense.

Mother kept watch.

One afternoon she put a magnolia bloom on the table by my bed. The rich fragrance filled the room reminding me of summers past, in Wake Forest, when I was a child, walking around the seminary campus, walking to church, walking to Daddy’s office, running barefoot through the grass.

It was the scent of innocence and light and long-ago worlds when hearts were whole.

That night I had fantastic dreams—wild and wonderful—almost hallucinogenic. When I woke up the next morning, I had forgotten that I was unhappy. I forgot to be sad. I felt revived.

Later I read that the pungent fragrance of flowers like magnolias and gardenias can induce reverie and dreams. Maybe that’s why they call it a “heady” scent. It gets in your head!

The healing went both ways.

Earlier, in 1978, Mother had to have gallbladder surgery. She was living at the time in Fukuoka with my father, but for the surgery she returned to Raleigh, NC.

I was then a student at St. Andrews College in Laurinburg, NC. It was my senior year, and I petitioned to spend the month of January—which was reserved for “winter term”—on an independent project reading The Tale of Genji.

Mother had arranged to stay in a house near North Hills during her recovery. The house belonged to acquaintances who were traveling elsewhere. It was a lovely home.

I remember holing up in one of the bedrooms there and reading The Tale of Genji—the Waley translation. It was magic. By night I was transported to a distant land of silken robes and scented paper.

By day I sat by Mother’s bedside at Wake Med hospital off New Bern Avenue, staring desperately at the IVs and tubes that surrounded her.

Shortly after her surgery, Mother was released into my care. I fluffed her pillows and kept her fed on lime jello, chocolate pudding, and Campbell’s tomato soup.

On nights when she was feeling well enough, I told her all about The Tale of Genji, reading passages to her and describing Prince Genji’s many romances. When she slept, I wrote letters to my father, letting him know our patient was on the mend.

We had a healing bond, my mother and I.

Christmas 2009 found us both suffering from heartaches, though the source of our pain was different.

I had just broken up with a man I had thought would be part of my forever future.

Mother was watching her husband of over sixty years slowly slip away.

Daddy had Alzheimer’s disease.

He had recently escaped from his nursing home in Raleigh, had fallen, and had been sent to a hospital in Winston Salem, miles from Mother’s condominium.

She was not about to let him languish there alone. She drove the congested highway to Winston Salem every day.

Occasionally a friend would put her up over night so she could avoid the long drive home. Eventually a church group learned of her plight and offered to let her stay in the church guest house over the Christmas holidays.

I hadn’t planned to spend Christmas in North Carolina, but there I was—bereft once again—and needing my mother’s healing touch. I drove from St. Louis to Winston Salem.

Mother and I spent a week or so together. The city was unfamiliar, the house was not ours, but still it was a homecoming.

At night we would curl up together under the covers on her bed and whisper our sadness to one another.

It reminded me of other times I had sought comfort in my mother’s embrace.

When I was little, I would often get scared at night as I lay in my bed alone.

My room was large, the ceilings high, and the lights from the cars that passed down South Main Street cast eerie shadows along the walls.

When I couldn’t take a minute more, I would race down the stairs and leap into bed with Mother and Daddy.

I remember on cold nights my feet would be icy, and Mother would nestle them between her soft thighs until the warmth of her body seeped into mine.

Years later, after I had entered college, I spent a year in Fukuoka with my parents. Our house lacked a proper heating system and even though it was a sturdy little bungalow, it often felt drafty. Once I remember stopping by my parents’ bedroom to talk to Mother about something. Daddy was away. It was so cold, I crawled in bed next to her and we huddled under the covers, talking.

At night now when my fingers and toes are cold, I remember the subtle vanilla of Mother’s skin, the softness of her smile. I wrap myself in my bed covers and remember those tender moments of quiet comfort. And out of nowhere, as if by magic, her warmth seeps into me.