By Lawrence P. McGuire
Mom, eighty-six, wears me down.
A dutiful daughter, I live in one mode: worn out. I tire of toweling up Mom’s warm puddles, stinking like a drowned mouse.
In my front room, Mom screams. In the downstairs bathroom, she trills. She cries out from morning till night.
Mom delights in stroking my eggshell ego: “Best daughter of all time.”
Today I drove Mom to see her gerontologist. He said, “Let her scream, but keep your windows locked.”
Doc doesn’t understand. For months all my windows have been shut tight.
What I want to know is, when do I get to scream?
One of these days, I suspect, she’s going to leave a window open.
A well and economically told tale!
I feel your pain, sister. Most of us get there, eventually. Someone once said that “old age is not for he squeamish.” Watching it happen with the person you’ve known the longest in your life, is not for the squeamish either. Stay strong. Good things come to those that wait. Sometimes it just SEEMS never-ending!
Excellent emotions and descriptions. Great job.
Love it. Well done