We whispered amongst ourselves when my mother brought her stray cats into the house. She was always doing that - bringing in the people we would despise. There were always renegades around; the kind of people others would stare at, the kind others would reject.
They were the guests at our table.
It was a lesson in kindness I have never forgotten. A glimpse into humility. Looking back I think my mother saw something I failed to see as a child, I think she must have felt a love directed toward herself much greater than anything we could imagine to be so loving to the unpalatable.
Is there a bit of that legacy for me? My mother has asked us to put our names on things in her house for when she's dead ... so we will know what belongs to whom. I've never liked the idea; in truth, I've teased her about it.
But will she put a label on her love? Will she write my name on that legacy to carry when she's gone?