I took my mother to her doctor. Her weight exactly the same as mine. Congestive heart failure. Increasing and progressive Parkinson’s symptoms. Heart murmur. High blood pressure.
Then we went out for lunch, my mother napping on the ride to the restaurant. She devoured a vegetarian reuben sandwich with a house salad and a pile of yam fries. A big glass of iced tea. She asked me to put my hand up. She placed her hand, palm to palm, with mine. “I don’t remember that our hands are exactly the same size,” I said somewhat surprised.
“You know, that was bad news at the doctor’s, but I feel fine,” she said. “When it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.” She pushed a few fries onto my plate.