We had a conference to meet with Irene's family today, to let them know we think "it's time." Time to move from one side of the building to my side. My side. The crazy person's side. We were all seated around a large conference table and Irene waltzed in, a too-tight silky blouse clinging to unhinged breasts that, in another time, were accustomed to riding considerably higher than her waist. At any rate, she joined us with an exuberant smile, sat down, and said, "Oh! And here I'd thought you'd forgotten my birthday!" She grinned, twinkle in her eye, stood to kiss her children, and sat back down. "We usually celebrate with, well, things (we filled in words like cake, candles, cards) and she said "yes, those things," as though she hadn't missed a beat. "But this is fine," she said, smiling, looking person to person as she (and we) sealed her fate.
It wasn't her birthday.
Her daughter was shocked but not surprised to learn of mother's nocturnal wanderings, her agitation at finding an empty box and damning the person who had the audacity to send her nothing and make her pay postage for it. She'd emptied it at Christmas, full of cookies and a snow-white sweater, but had no memory of it and cannot be reminded. So she will come to live with me for the remainder of her days, and we will find her a brassiere, because she would want one, and that is what she would call it.
4 comments:
sometimes when you write it, it tingles the skin, it so comes to life. I don't mean to insinuate anything humorous about any of it, but I hope you write a screenplay include this.
sometimes when you write it, it tingles the skin, it so comes to life. I don't mean to insinuate anything humorous about any of it, but I hope you write a screenplay and include this.
ps and from all of us who still think of it, thanks for the brassiere. (I could have left the first comment uncorrect, you would have known what I meant. can't delete them myself!)
thanks. thanks and thanks
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