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2007-02-12 || 11:32 p.m. || 10 february 2007 || we sat on the couch and played computer games on laptops and watched all the thin man movies and traded answers to three days' worth of crossword puzzles. when she took naps dad ran out to the grocery store and bought junk food or brought breakfast home in styrofoam boxes from the restaurant down the street. i tried to think of what i could do to please her: doing the dishes or washing towels that were perfectly clean or straightening up the collection of medication on the kitchen table. i asked her what she wanted to do for her birthday. she said she wanted a day off. when she was up and dressed and feeling well we looked online at houses for me in portland. she has a way of saying "dad and i were thinking when i die he'll move up there with you" in a way that i agree it's a good idea, that i've thought of that myself and am able to sit still and smile and let her suggest going in on a duplex with dad before i realize how horrible that is. we made fun of decorating choices of low-end portland house owners attempting to sell. she dreamed up landscaping solutions. i have never loved my mother so much. we sit on the couch and i yell at her when she tries to cut off my dad's sentences while inhaling and exhaling into a nebulizer during her breathing treatments. i agree to take home a winter coat she no longer wants that i will most likely never wear but lugged on the plane ride home any way. i don't cry when we are seated at the kitchen table for her birthday dinner and she takes two bites and then pushes it away. i am encouraging and optimistic when she points out hair growth i frankly can't see. i don't cry when she says she feels like jacob marley with oxygen tube as chains, and when i have to leave her i give her a short friendly hug and simply say good bye, happy birthday. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |