Mum doesn't remember many things. If I'm lucky, some days she might remember my name.

She looked at me this morning and said "Once you were a little boy, but now you're grown up. The time went so quickly."

Then she added, "When you start out, life is nice. Then it gets hard. And now... it's beautiful."

I was surprised and asked "why is it beautiful?"

She said "Because I have this beautiful man, and I have so many people who love me. It's just beautiful!"

I was gobsmacked. How can someone who has lost large parts of her cognitive ability still have such a large ocean of meaning in her life?

I teared up. So did Dad. I know Mum has lived a good life because even though she has lost a lot, and has been through a lot, what remains is simply... love.

We're so fortunate to have her in our lives.

 'Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.'

-- Marcus Aurelius

"Travail" is painful labour, as with childbirth and anything worthwhile. This is a sonnet about Travail.

For my Australian friends with an ear to hear, it is about more than that.