The Reaching
by Lila Shaw
· 13/02/2026
Published 13/02/2026 17:31
My mother's hand
doesn't reach.
She stands in the kitchen,
reaches for a can
on the top shelf,
the shelf where I've always reached,
where I've always been
the tall one,
the one who doesn't have to ask,
the one who just
gets it.
But her arm stops short.
Her fingertips hover
below the edge.
The gap
between what she needs
and what she can grasp
is suddenly
the most important distance
in the room.
I reach past her.
My hand doesn't even
strain.
When did this happen?
When did she become
this small?
Not smaller physically.
But smaller in the way
that matters,
smaller in the way
that means she can't
do the thing
she's always done,
can't access
the space
she thought
was hers to access.
My father's chair
looks too big for him now.
His voice
is quieter.
The house
that always felt
like it belonged to them
now feels like it belongs
to me,
and I'm not ready
for this shift,
for this reversal,
for the moment
when I become
the one
who reaches,
the one
who provides,
the one
who holds
the things
they can't
reach anymore.
I give her the can.
She takes it.
We don't say anything
about the gap,
about what just happened,
about the fact
that everything
is backwards now
and we're all
pretending
we don't notice.