Before we went to brunch, Mom and I waited in her living room for it to be time to leave, she on her petite sofa, me at her table by the sliding-glass door. She had washed her hair that morning and it fell in soft waves that framed her face. Her hair is light gray …
My mom moved into her retirement community three years ago this July. On the way back from Mother’s Day brunch, as she rode her scooter in the long hallway and I walked along side, I asked, “How do you feel about living here, Mom?” She didn’t look up as she spoke. She has always driven …
At my mom’s, outside the sliding-glass door in her living room, across the narrow stone patio and a swath of grass bright green from recent rain, there is a cherry tree. Cornus mas. It is about 20 feet tall and just as wide. The blossoms are a soft baby pink, with the slightest hint of sweetness. …
Last week, I argued with reality: “She shouldn’t just push her empty plate at me and expect me to pick it up.” “He should help, or at least call.” “I should be making more progress on my book.” Every ‘should’ pointed to an argument with reality. Arguments with reality result in anger (negative energy directed …