Sunday, January 6, 2013
This is not that kind of blog. It is not a chronological history or our personal tragedies. But I wrote this account, as I do from time to time and I haven't written much lately and haven't posted in an entirely long time. So here it is. And the title? Sorry about that. But it is honest and I have no other way to summarize this post.
I unwrap my mother’s Christmas gift. She can’t unwrap it, won’t unwrap it. Can’t, won’t- I can’t decide which it is. I write her name on the pillow made to support back sleepers 5 different times with a cheap gel pen. I left the sharpie in the truck and I’m much too lazy to traverse the parking lot to get it. I put my mother’s Christmas gift into a pillow case I grabbed from my linen closet. I notice a small brown stain on the pillow case and mutter a curse under my breath. My husband and I discuss very ineloquently whether to put the nursing home issued flat pillow in Mom’s closet or leave in on the bed. We are leaving. I could not convince my mother to leave the common area to come to her room to open her gift or walk the halls. She ate the cookies I brought though. She ate them with a ferocious hunger that I can only guess comes as her last vestige of pleasure, food. I can understand that.