In my childhood, my mother spent her evening hours doing something for someone else. Sometimes she knitted (编织) hats for babies, and at other times, she cooked chicken soup for sick neighbors. Therefore, I wasn't surprised when one evening my mother announced she had undertaken a new project.

"I am going to telephone seniors," said my mother. "Every night? But you don't even know these people." "It doesn't matter," she said. "What's important is that I listen." I was sixteen years old and couldn't understand why my mother was willing to spend her evenings talking to strangers. She had friends and my two older sisters to call if she felt lonely. "They will talk your ear off. Some people didn't even stop to catch breath." I said.

My attitude didn't stop my mother's enthusiasm for the project. That evening, she settled on the sofa and dialed. For a while, I listened as she asked the woman on the other line about her day and what she had eaten for dinner. When she finished the call, I said, "Why do you care whether she had cookies or rice pudding for dessert?" My mother grasped one of my hands and gave it a slight squeeze. "I'm the only person she talked to today."

It took me more than thirty years to fully understand the meaning of that statement. Now, as my mother is nearing eighty, I find myself thinking about those nightly calls she used to make. I am often the only person who telephones my mother, and sometimes I'm the only person she speaks to all day. I ask her what she cooked for dinner, but mostly I just listen as she describes a walk she took, or how her dog Lucky stole foods from the refrigerator. I realize that my mother's calls were life lines that ensured housebound seniors remained connected to the world. Without her, their world would have been empty.