Day nine at the Mirabella. Share dinner with Mom, or rather my brother and I watch her eat her dinner--each bite is followed by a cycle of chewing that lasts forever, at least five minutes per bite. Her lips sag, so I can see her food as it's haphazardly shuttled to the front of her mouth along the rims of her teeth and then back again to her cheeks. Between bites of chicken and rice, she cries, much like yesterday, only she remembers nothing about yesterday and our outing outside in the early fall afternoon. Nothing about the way her eyes sparkled with interest at the seagull on top of the light post. Nothing about the tears she shed on the sidewalk. Nothing about the chicken satay she let drop from her mouth. Nothing about the anger she let go when I got ready to leave. Absolutely nothing. How could it be otherwise?
Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is alifewithmom--
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