Dish Towels

The phone rings. It's mom.

"I just realized I never thanked you for all of the nice things you brought up here with you," she says, referring to a smorgasbord of household goodies, from a gratin dish to drink coasters to kitchen towels, all placed on a bamboo tray, that I had brought to them in January.  "That was certainly nice of you...you didn't have to do that," she added.

"You're welcome," I laughed. "I felt like I'd missed dad's birthday back in November and Christmas, so it was kind of an all-in-one offering when I came up in January. that's when I brought you your slippers, and the bamboo socks that you haven't been able to wear because your feet were so swollen. And the green blanket."

As she went on about how lovely the dish towels were, I was preserving the recording in my mind. How utterly like her this conversation was. She is most comfortable starting a conversation if she has a reason to begin talking, but once she gets started -- and if dad's not around -- she becomes chatty. It's easy to tell if dad's not home. That's the only time she and I have long phone conversations. There may have been an initial reason for calling, but then we weave through whatever topic jumps in front of us.

"I opened the dishwasher today, and there were glasses and dishes in there from, oh, I don't know, I guess it was before I checked out," she drawls. "There were things in there that I'd been looking for, but I never thought to look in the dishwasher. Your dad always washes everything by hand, so I guess I figured there wouldn't be anything in there. I don't know when we would have used the dishwasher..." her voice trails off. "But...I guess we did," she laughed.