A few days ago I flew here to Florida to take care of my Mom as she faced some health issues. As I write it’s early morning. I was woken up a few minutes ago by the sound of my Mom’s slippered feet as they shuffle past my bedroom door on her way to the kitchen. It’s pill time. I can hear the pull tab on the tomato juice pop loose. I can hear the front door open and the plastic bag that houses the New York Times be discarded. I can hear the flicking of her Bic lighter as she lights her first cigarette.
As she begins another day, I lie here in a whirl of worry. Every sense alert. I never had children but I imagine this is the feeling parents have listening for the whimpers of a new born baby or waiting on a Saturday night to hear the car pull up the driveway delivering the teenager home safely. I am vigilant, keenly aware of my Mom's every movement, falsely convinced my attention will make a difference.
But then I remember
