It took me nearly 20 years to match her stride, my long-legged mother. I can still feel the lilt of her skirt brushing against me as I two-stepped, skipped, ran, behind her. I knew she wasn’t going to slow down. She wasn’t about to apologize for those long stems that carried her. She relied on them. Needed them. Even when her heart sent them a wobble, they held. It was something to see, even from behind. 

Mrs. Anderson, our high school volleyball coach, always told us that we raised our game with the best of teams. And she was right. Barely winning over the weaker ones. Surprising those who were sure to win. When they gave us their best, we got better.

I have to believe that’s what my mother was doing. Giving me her best. With each reach of her size tens, she asked me to keep up. Willed me to keep going. On the roughest of roads, she put one foot in front of the other. And I followed. Joyfully, pridefully, followed. With each step, getting better.

In the hotel lobby this morning, I was behind a woman with her walker. Memories tripping. My heart wobbled. Give your best, I heard. I reached the sugar for her from the top shelf. Steadied her cup. We both smiled. I walked away with long strides.

I was taught to believe my feet will take me where I need to go. I still do.