I had almost finished doing the washing-up when I began to feel quite emotional… It had nothing to do with the conversation with my brother over lunch, which was very pleasant and genial. The day had been good so far – plenty of exercise, my hormones were fine and nothing was bothering me; I was simply standing there with my hands in the sink when I noticed, through  the gaps in the bubbles, the pretty colours in the hand-knitted cotton dishcloth. It started pale blue at one end for two rows, then on to mauve, cerise and white, and finished with a pale pink – a single line of navy blue against the white made it edgy in an artistic way, like a dark line in an abstract painting by Mondrian. But the point is that I recognised the handiwork and I thought of the hands that had made it…

Those are the hands I have known all my life; the hands that held me first and nurtured me with love and kindness; they are the industrious, hard working, tireless, giving, soothing and loving hands of my mother.

I wrung out the dishcloth in my slightly daintier hands (than Mum’s), wiped the kitchen worktops and returned it to the sink.

“Soak it in a little bleach every so often and it will keep on going for years,” I could almost hear Mum saying.

I did exactly that and the colours became brighter.

Although I felt emotional thinking about my mother and all she has done for me, I didn’t cry; in fact, I smiled to myself. Mum may be nearly blind these days but she is hale and hearty (if perhaps a little cold) in England. I expect she is knitting or making aprons (by feel, while she keeps abreast of world news on the radio) even as I write this.