Say, can you hand me that saw? I have to cut this leg out from under me. Won't take me a minute. This part of me is rotten; anyone can tell. Anyone who reads, at least. Yes, you can watch. I'm not going to make a big fuss. Done that already.

I'm hoping to slide gracefully to the floor without too many people noticing. Don't want my underwear to show or anything. I've already humiliated myself and the evidence is everywhere. I hope I don't cry. You can laugh if I do.

Do you need an extra piece of dead wood?

In the dark, physically and emotionally. The words on the screen are shocking to me. But that was another time, long gone and actually it was only yesterday. The temperature was 95 then. The temperature is 95 now. Well, close. I was buried in bank statements. I am buried in bank statements. She was maddening then. She is...oh, oh. See, you really can't continue these parallels. We, who were so close, we huddled in fear of yet another beating, we are veering apart, shooting away in our anger and grief. Will I know your old face when I happen upon it years from now? Why yes. That's you. I recognize the scar. Look here, I have one to match.

Walked across the bridge last night to Lincoln Center where Joshua Bell rolled around and wrestled Tchaikovsky's violin concerto to the floor. Joshua, who I don't even know, can make a noise that reaches right into my pea sized heart and makes it ring. Not sure if the ringing is a prelude to joy or will I bust down and cry.

Now, as we all know or will know pretty soon, other people can make a noise that makes you want to scream. Nothing wrong with screaming. It's gotten bad press. Still I am determined not to scream. If I must, it will be a very quiet scream that only I can hear.

there must have been a time when this birthday stuff was fun. I remember that, I think. But no more. Charge to the bank. I have to remind all my sisters, not to call. Very aggravating when they call. There must have been a time when it was fun when they called. O remember that. Now i just glare at the phone. Everything stops. I think I've become a good glarer. Why let any of this get under your skin, you say? Easy to you to say. You who are not sitting here across from a mad woman. (Is that me or her? Both)

A deep anger has settled in. Mix that up with pity (is that for me or her). Pity is, just to be confusing, a lagniappe. That is, until she makes that noise. At which time, I will figure out if it's time to scream or cry. Definitely not joy. Definitely.

This is a history of mama? Not likely. Not about meds and beds, and bedbugs. More like a history of how we react to who we think she is.
Last night I dreamt I was sleeping in a department store. There were bugs and mice everywhere. Sound familiar? I dropped a pillow and when I tried to pick it up, something on the other side of the nightstand, pulled it back. A roach about 8 inches long was crawling on the sheets.
I was in a panic and there was only one other person around to help.....MAMA. I crept into her room; she was sleeping in the bedding department, naturally. I called her name over and over. Yeah, I knew she was old and tired, maybe even comatose. But I needed her. She finally answered in her irritated voice. She told me where the roach spray was. There was a hole in the wall and I sprayed into it, covering my own arms with cancer causing spray in the process. A wave of rats stumbled out.
Then I went under the nightstand. There was a whole family of mice. Spray Spray Spray. Kill Kill Kill.
And all because a praying mantis bit my thumb yesterday....No, that REALLY happened!

Ring ring.

Did you have lunch? Did you have lunch? Someone is speaking spanish to me and I yelled at him. But who is it? I don't know. Then he hung up.

What did you have for lunch? I'm frying my chicken. I didn't know it was so thick. I'm getting ready to put it in the box. Last night I almost froze. I put the fan on and went to sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night freezing. It was terrible.

What I was going to say. It's going to be the same the whole week. Except Sat-too-daay. Sat-too-daaay it is going to be 95.

Saturday we go to the bank. What! You just went to the bank on Monday. But I didn't bring the checks to deposit. I have to deposit that check. They'll think I'm dead. Nobody's watching.

I wrote the letter to Carmen. I went to the corner and mailed it right away. I didn't want to wait too long.

I better go finish the dishes. I soaked them.

Click. Click.

Old and fragile, she makes a trip to the bank. We should be outraged. Last year, 5 years ago, 10 years ago, we would have been outraged. Sort of funny. Last year, 5 years ago, 10 years ago, she was younger. Last year she was only 90.
All those memories totter to the bank. There she thinks a plot is being hatched against her. Don't know if she is wrong. Could be a plot. That is the madness of her life. She lays out the details for me to understand. My understanding is an arrow but her details are a swirl. We are not matching this jig saw puzzle. Have to tell Mel.