Garden of Memorial

Whatever you are, is because of what your ancestors have done

Let us make future generations, remember us as proud ancestors

just as today, we remember our forefathers —> Click on each person to leave your memories

When Mother Has Grown Old

It happened so gradually that I didn’t notice it at first.

One day, my mother was reminding me to wear a jacket; the next, I was reminding her to take her medicine.

Her black hair turned gray. Her quick steps slowed.

Her voice, once full of certainty and strength, softened into quiet questions:

“Where did I put my glasses?” or “What day is it today?”

I used to see my mother as unshakable.
She was the one who carried the weight of our family on her back
through hard years, through uncertain times.

She woke up before dawn to prepare meals, worked long hours,
and still found time to sit with me and ask about school. She never rested — not really.

Love, for her, was never spoken in grand words, but shown through small, steady sacrifices.

Now, she forgets things. She repeats herself. She moves more slowly.

And for the first time in my life, I see not just my mother, but a woman aging.

A woman who gave everything to raise her children, and now needs those same children to be gentle, to be present, to give back.

There are hard days. Days when I feel impatient.
Days when she asks the same question five times and I want to snap.
But then I remember:
she must have answered my questions a thousand times when I was a child—
with patience, with love. Now it’s my turn.

I sit with her more now. I listen to her stories,
even the ones I’ve heard again and again. I laugh at her jokes.
I take her hand when we walk.
Because these small moments are not small at all— they are precious.
And they are fading.

There is something sacred in caring for an aging mother.
It’s not just about duty. It’s about gratitude.
It’s about honoring the life she gave, the years she sacrificed,
the love she never stopped giving— even when I didn’t notice.

One evening, as the sun was setting, she looked at me and smiled.
“I’m proud of you,” she said.
My throat tightened. I realized how rare it was for her to say that out loud.
But she didn’t have to— her life has always said it for her.

When mother grows old, everything changes.
But love—real love—grows deeper.
And in the quiet of her aging, I finally see her fully.
Not just as a mother, but as a woman.
As a life. As a legacy.

And I will treasure her for as long as I can.