It doesn’t take much.  A comb, a slice of fruit cake, a book of poems, her favorite hymn: these are the things that throw me back in time, and I remember mama so vividly it’s almost as if I can reach out and hug her.  I can see her now cooking over a hot stove at mid-day while all the others workers rested; being quiet – either out fear or respect – whenever daddy lost his temper; sawing all night to be sure to have made three beautiful dresses for her daughters to wear to Easter morning service; laughing and encouraging and sometimes daring me recite “Invictus” and joining in to help me say, “I think whatever God shall be from my unconquerable soul.”   I can see her, too,  in her autumn years not remembering simple things like feeding herself or bathing herself; but not forgetting to pray – this time not bowed with hands clasped together but standing slightly bent over because age or arthritis or both has robbed of her  of the ability to stoop and the strength to rise again.