My 88-year-old mother is hilarious. Truly, deeply, wonderfully hilarious—even in the ways that break your heart a little.

Tonight, I stopped by her house for one of our usual visits. We talked, we laughed, we sat in that warm familiarity that only decades of love can build. Then, in the middle of our conversation, she looked at me, squinting just a little like she always does when she’s about to get serious, and asked:

“Do you save your bacon grease?”

I hesitated. I knew where this was going. “Uh… no, Mom,” I replied gently.

Without missing a beat, she got up, shuffled over to the stove, and came back holding a pristine little jar. Spotless inside and out. She pressed it into my hand and said, with that unmistakable tone of motherly insistence:

“Save your bacon grease.”

That was it. A simple command, from a woman who’s lived nearly nine decades, raised a family, lived through heartbreaks and joys, and is now quietly, courageously living with stage 4 breast cancer.

She’s dealing with so much. Her body has been through hell. Her energy is low. There’s pain, there’s fear, there’s the slow letting go that she doesn’t speak of—but we both know it’s happening.

And still, tonight, she was concerned about me. About whether or not I save bacon grease.

But here’s the thing: It wasn’t really about the bacon grease.

My mom has been slowly giving me things from her home—handwritten recipes, old utensils, dishes she’s used for decades. Little pieces of her, passed down in the only way she knows how. She doesn’t say why, but I know.

She’s preparing me. Quietly. Gently. One jar, one note, one story at a time.

This little jar isn’t just for drippings. It’s a reminder of Sunday breakfasts, of biscuits sizzling in cast iron pans, of the way she always made something out of nothing. It’s a symbol of the kind of wisdom that only comes with time. The kind of love that lingers long after we’re gone.

I will cherish this jar. And her handwriting. And every awkward, hilarious, beautiful conversation we still have.

Life is short. Messy. Chaotic. But tonight, I was reminded that there’s beauty in the small things—the unexpected gifts, the silly traditions, the quiet moments where love speaks louder than words.

So yes, Mom.

From now on, I’ll be saving my bacon grease.