As I put you to bed I see how small you are- so fragile.
I ask if there's anything I can get you- a drink of water maybe?
You say no- you're fine. You're ready to go to sleep.
I say okay. I pull the covers up to your neck so you'll be nice and warm.
I brush your hair back from your forehead.
You ask me to turn your light out.
I say I love you-you say you love me. I leave your room.
It's the mother/daughter bedtime ritual played out night after night in homes around the world. Only now the ritual is changed- the daughter tucks in the mother, turns off the light and leaves the room.
We have lived long enough to see our roles reversed- my mother has become as my daughter and I- the daughter- have become as her mother.