I passed by her photo on top of the piano this morning. She's sitting on the arm of Dad's chair, her arm on his shoulder. It's a rare photo of her as she is smiling. This was taken just three years ago when #2 child was making the trip 'home'.
In three weeks, kidlet #3 and I will visit her. Things have changed alot for her since that photo - my father has been buried a year, and she has descended into, what can only be described as, Parkinsonian hell.
She misses him, and why wouldn't she? Being married almost 60 years would do that to a person. The clock on the kitchen wall clicks unbearably loudly.
Lately our telephone calls are peculiar. There are definite points in the conversation when it appears we've done an instant time warp. Not being the sharpest tool in the shed myself, it takes a minute or so to regroup and follow her. The leaps and bounds through time and place mean I have to pay extra attention and utter the odd "uh huh" every so often, so she'll know that I'm still there. I ask her questions about whatever she has brought up in conversation and prepare to be transported someplace in her response. I willingly go, knowing the day is soon to come when even these conversations will prove to be too much for her.
In three weeks, we will be face to face. There is fear in the unknown; there's also fear in the known.
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