Sunny Days

After a big breakfast (two eggs and a slice of toast) mom wanted to get dressed. Not switching from one pair of pajamas to the next; she wanted to wear jeans.

"I want you to help me go through my makeup drawer," she said. "I know there's a lot of stuff in there that needs to be thrown away. It's been awhile since I've worn any of it and I should start putting makeup on again."

We spent the rest of the morning choosing something for her to wear and cleaning out her drawer. Whenever there was a pause, she talked about food, talked about the next meal.

At lunch, she ate a thick meatloaf sandwich, chips and fruit. Dad wanted her to drink a glass of tomato juice, but she insisted on a can of orange soda.

After lunch today, mom wanted to sit out the patio. One of the Red Bud trees is getting pink, a contrast to the other trees that aren't budding yet.

"It can't be any colder out there than my feet," she said.

"Mom, give me a minute and I'll join you," I said.

"Nope, she replied. "I'm not going to wait."

She walked to the door, slid it open and started to take a step outside. Then she retreated.

"Too cold?"

"Yep."

She came around to sit down again.

"Are you going to write anything about your sick old mother?" she asked.

"What would you want me to write?"

"That I'm sick. And old."

"You forgot the part about being a mother," I offered.

She sits in her chair with a blanket over her lap, sipping her coffee and staring out the window. Her bare feet are too swollen for socks, and they peek out from under the blanket, toes wiggling.

The cat jumps into her lap and gets comfortable, then jumps down to see what dad is doing in the other room.

I have to leave to drive home soon. My mom, dad and aunt are talking about playing games: Florence wants to play Scrabble, dad says he doesn't like Scrabble. They talk about whether there's a Cribbage game online. They're restless I guess.

I help mom arrange her makeup drawer before I leave, grabbing a cookie and a drink as I go.