It was a gloomy day in early winter and Mother sat close to the window with her knitting. The coal-oil lamp, ready on the table in front of her, would be lit by four that afternoon, but for now she bent low over the needles using whatever light there was. She and I were alone in the house. Dad was either doing chores in the barn or in the bush cutting wood. That was the day Mother told me the story about the mother eagle, her brood of three eaglets, and the river.

I was playing with my doll close to the round heater in the middle of the room and looked up when Mother spoke. She was musing aloud about how children had to grow up and leave their parents. Drawing a length of yarn from the ball of cream homespun wool, she went on speaking to me in English. "You won't always be a little girl, Mary, playing here close to me. Some day you'll grow up and then you'll leave me. Yes, yes! Of course you will."

After knitting another row or two, she paused to massage her hand as she gazed out the window where grey remnants of summer's vegetation protruded from an expanse of snow. "Yes, you will grow up and move away. Maybe far away. And what of the time when I'm an old lady? Hmm? Will you come and look after me then?"

Disturbed by her mood, though not able to grasp the full meaning of her words, I left my doll and went over to lean on her knee. She acknowledged my presence with a touch and turned back to her knitting. Colder days were coming and many pairs of socks and mittens would be needed to see the family through to spring. There was certainly no time for spoiling children by cuddling them on one's lap.

But over the knitting she told me a story which must be a version of a Russian folk tale, one she must have heard from her own mother, my Doukhobor grandmother, Tanya. This is how I piece the story together today.

A mother eagle and her brood of three eaglets lived in a forest by a wide river. One day a forest fire threatened their nest and the mother had to seek a safe haven for them across the river. Taking one of the children in her talons she made haste toward a forest beyond the water. While flying over the river, the eagle said, "See how much I love you. I risk my own life in order to carry you to safety. Tell me the truth now, child, will you always stay with me? And when I am old and feeble and cannot look after myself, will you look after me then? Be careful with your reply for if you lie to me, I will drop you into the water below." The eaglet looked down at the deep and dark water and, being afraid, gave a reply it thought the parent wished to hear. "Oh, Mother, I will stay with you all of my life and will always care for you as you have cared for me."

"You are lying," the mother uttered in disgust, and let the eaglet fall down, down into the river.

The eagle returned to her nest for a second child and asked it the same question. She received the same reply and the second eaglet, too, was dropped into the water. When carrying the third eaglet, Mother Eagle asked again, begging an honest answer from her last child. The third eaglet looked down at the water below and was frightened, but realized there could only be one honest response to its mother's question. "No," it said, "for though I love you dearly, Mother, and appreciate all that you do for me, when I grow up I will have to build my own nest and raise my own brood. I cannot make any promises for the days when you will be old."

"You are a wise and honest child," the mother eagle said. And she carried this one to safety.

In time, I grew up and left my parents' farm, first moving to Kamsack to work, then marrying and making my own nest, and then moving my nest and brood from the home town in Saskatchewan to several locations before settling down in Winnipeg. By this time, two of my five daughters were well fledged out and ready to continue the eternal cycle.

Mom and Dad had now retired to a house in Kamsack. We visited them two or three times a year, and they came to Winnipeg occasionally, until travel became a problem as they grew frail with age. Then we visited Mom at her home and Dad in the hospital or nursing home. After Dad's death in 1991, we continued our visits and kept weekly contact with Mother by telephone. I always looked forward to those Sunday morning chats when one of us would call the other and we caught up on news and each other's doings.

When our children were all on their own, there was a period of time when my husband and I seriously considered moving to Kamsack. Our two and a half-storey house was now much too big for us, and we yearned for the quiet and neighborly atmosphere of a small town. There were many houses for sale in Kamsack, all on generous-sized lots and going for half the price of real estate in Winnipeg. Mother glowed with enthusiasm at the prospect of having us so close to her again.

We looked at the houses, but on returning to the city, we realized that moving to a small town would take us away from services we had come to take for granted. Then, too, four of our daughters and several grandchildren lived in Winnipeg, with a great-grandchild soon to arrive. Regardless of any yearning to return to quiet and kin and roots, it would have been unwise for us to leave the larger centre and our own family.

When next I spoke to Mother, I told her that George and I had had a serious discussion about the houses we'd seen and none seemed suitable. Then, some months later, just before our next visit, Mother informed us that another bungalow had been put up for sale. Would we look at it? Not having the heart to tell her the truth, I agreed.

As it turned out, the house was not at all what we wanted, and in explaining this at supper that evening, I also told her about our change of heart. She stared down at her plate as I outlined the reasons. Then, with a deep sigh, she said, "Oh! Do whatever you like," and she went to her bedroom. She emerged a few moments later scolding, "Didn't you hear the kettle? Aren't you going to make tea?"

For two more years, I travelled to Kamsack and kept up our telephone contact. The last time we spoke was the week before Mother's Day, 1994, when Mother called me. "Well?" she wanted to know, "So are you still coming in two weeks?" I noticed she spoke more slowly than usual, that her voice seemed low, and that she frequently cleared her throat. We talked about the things that interested us. She asked about my sewing and the rhubarb in my garden, and said she'd try to locate some special sweet pea seeds she wanted to give me. "See you in two weeks, Mom. And I will be calling you next Sunday," I said as I hung up. There was no answer when I called her on Mother's Day. Concerned, I spoke with my sister, Verna, who also lives in Winnipeg. She volunteered to call our nephew right away and ask him to look in on his grandma.

Mother was 84 at this time and looked after herself, even to doing her own laundry on a wringer washer. She was living in a walk-up apartment near the post-office, bank, and shopping area, and was pleased to be able to attend to her own business matters. She even kept up a connection to her old house and the garden, though it had been a couple of years since she'd really been in control of things there.

We had often suggested she give up the garden, but she explained, "The garden gives me so much joy." And mother would certainly not consider moving into a senior's residence or having someone come in to help her. "I'm okay," she insisted, "I'll know when it's time to move. And I don't need to have strangers coming in to poke into my belongings." Our nephew found Mother unconscious, sitting in a chair where she had collapsed the previous day. When I arrived in Kamsack, the doctor explained, "Your mother had a stroke and she'll stay in a coma until she dies. We're giving her fluid intravenously and oxygen to make her comfortable. That's all we can do."

Three of my sisters, other close family members and I came and went to and from that bleak hospital room where Mother lay, a mask covering most of her face, and her eyes shut tight. Her arms lay lifeless on the covers and the still mostly brown hair were the features most visible to us during those days.

She became our child. We stroked her body and felt her feet to see if she were warm enough. We sang softly to her both in Russian and English. We combed her hair and said those important things people find difficult to express to one another: "I love you" and many different phrases one can say to show a person they are appreciated.

One evening we noticed that after a nurse had suctioned her throat, Mother became agitated and restless. We soothed her with gentle strokes and hummed some song she may have heard her parents sing in Russian. Then we softly sang the songs we used to sing at family gatherings. She quieted down and fell into a peaceful sleep. Another time when we sisters got carried away with chatter, Mother became restless again. She seemed on the verge of saying,"Girls, be quiet. Can't you see I want to rest?" Again the soothing strokes and words relaxed her. It had rained that evening, so while gently touching her shoulder I said, The air smells good after the rain, Mom. Bet the rhubarb in your garden will really grow now." I felt her shoulder relax as I spoke. We realized then that even in a comatose state, Mother had been aware of our presence.

On Friday, her condition suddenly deteriorated and the doctor asked our permission to remove the oxygen mask and the I-V. We held a conference and then allowed this to happen. Mom's oldest brother and two sisters then joined us at her bedside. Following a Russian prayer, we had several readings from the Bible in English. In this way we comforted one another and supported the passage of Mother's spirit. It was only in recollection that I realized that these had been my mother's Last Rites.

Prayers and Funeral Services were held from the Doukhobor Prayer Home in Kamsack. I read the eulogy I had written for her, and then listened with family and community to the hymns of my ancestors, hymns which must have once echoed among the peaks of the Caucasus.

I was puttering in my garden on the Sunday following the funeral and really missing my customary chat with Mother. I sat down in a lawn chair and began to weep. There would be no more telephone chats with Mom, and no more visits when, after we had said goodbye, I could drive away thinking of her going about her daily chores or doing her handicrafts in front of the T.V. Grief and guilt immobilized me then. Surely I could have found some way to make that move from Winnipeg to Kamsack as we'd planned some years before. Mother had needed me, and I had failed her.

There I sat alone with my pain of loss and regret, and when it all seemed to be more than I could bear, I suddenly remembered Mom's voice saying to me that when I grew up I would have to build my own nest and raise my own brood. Then bit by bit, still in Mother's voice, I recalled the whole story of the eagle and her eaglets. I remembered the two of us together on the farm that grey day in early winter and how she sat by the window knitting.

Thus began the next stage of my relationship with Mother - the remembering part.