My Mother


My mother started losing her memory a few years back.
Sometimes I would serve her the same meal two nights in a row, and she would comment,
“We haven’t had meatloaf for ages.”
She once told her friend Lucille that she had lost her sense of smell. I told Lucille that you have to look on the bright side–her bedroom was next to my bathroom.

When I was a kid, she saw me being bad in the morning. She came home later and asked me to help her with the groceries. She handed me a large brown bag, and, with my arms full, she gave me a smack in the face, saying “that was for this morning.”
She could be very shrewd like that. She knew that the groceries were important to me and that I would not drop them. I never helped with the groceries after that.

She never quite mastered the stick shift in our VW beetle. When she drove it through the back wall of our garage, we knew that she had chosen the wrong gear.

She would insist that we eat everything on our plate, and then she’d serve me a large portion of cow brains.
She considered herself an artist, and, over a forty year period, she produced many paintings that made you feel worse than you did than before you looked at them.

She loved to entertain, she could make you laugh, and, at this, she had significant talent.


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