Jan 23 24
From Sally’s porch we see slate blue thunderclouds rippling like cellulite over giant, 7-Up green balls of rhododendron and hydrangea. An actual old red barn is off to the right and a wall of oak and maple as far as the eye can see, flanks the left. A white Dodge Dart is half visible behind the barn. Grey rain is crosshatching all of it. The sound of Sally frying bacon mixed with the water hitting the corrugated metal overhang is heaven.
We are talking to Sally through a ratty screen door — sitting on a white plastic chair — blue sneakered feet resting on the railing.
“The mailman’s been stealing my underwear off the clothes line.”
Sally has dementia but we didn’t know it then.
“He’s like a tricky little leprechaun; I bet I don’t get half my mail.”
“Are you sure that’s true?”
“Yes. Wanna eat at the table or out there?”
“Out here please.”
“Well, it’ll be on a paper plate then.”
“Ok.”
We are talking to Sally through a ratty screen door — sitting on a white plastic chair — blue sneakered feet resting on the railing.
“The mailman’s been stealing my underwear off the clothes line.”
Sally has dementia but we didn’t know it then.
“He’s like a tricky little leprechaun; I bet I don’t get half my mail.”
“Are you sure that’s true?”
“Yes. Wanna eat at the table or out there?”
“Out here please.”
“Well, it’ll be on a paper plate then.”
“Ok.”