They are dying, most of them. Like flies in August, the buzzing is louder, the elliptical flight slower by the day. We measure it in blood and breath, the thready pulse, the rapid heart, the shallow rattle, the cataract of time that turns blue eyes to milk. I forget this part, this autumn balancing of the census. It almost seems that they die to ease the holiday season for the ones they love. It is probably just pneumonia, but it is so much nicer to consider them mannered and contrite for all the trouble they have been. Besides, they make room for all of the families who have one more good Thanksgiving at Mom's before they finally buckle to the demands of dementia, the great leveller, the irreversible vanishing act that is Alzheimer's Disease, when she puts her best dress over her nightgown, uses toothpaste for hand lotion and Pine Sol for salad dressing.
I took Sid with me to do Stupid Pet Tricks today. He is so impressive. Best frisbee dog ever.
2 comments:
Yes, Thanksgiving a Mother's. It's all about the memories, isn't it? Then you get Alzheimers. Too bad Bush is showing signs of dementia. I want him to remember.
Did I say nice writing? It is a dark pleasure.
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