Mind Games


Shared another sublime moment with the Momster on Christmas Day. I used to enjoy taking her out to dinner, but I can’t anymore because she’s become calamitously incontinent. Thankfully, she was serene and accepting  — not at all as agitated as she has been. I’m never quite sure how she thinks of us in our absence– as grownups, kids, babies, or what. I guess it fluctuates. I told my brother she thinks of him as a tiny baby, and he told me she thinks I stole her car and I’m out galavanting with some wild girl I picked up. I guess once you’re the black sheep the impression sticks. She barely remembers my name, but have a few wild years and it’s written in the Book of Momma forever. We’ve always been especially frank with one another, though, so I just cut through the shit, and flat out ask her how she pictures us when she dreams? After reminding her our sister, Priscilla, was killed in car accident thirty years ago, the severity of the dementia seems to sink in. I explain it’s the only reason she’s in the nursing home, because of the nasty tricks her mind plays — the insidious nature of Alzheimer’s. Otherwise she’s as healthy as a horse. She nodded and shook her head with an understated resignation, but then a mischievous smile crept across her face. “I’m having some great parties, though, Michael. In my dreams? You should see it, everyone’s there!”


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