MayBelle and I have been traveling from Tennessee to Mississippi for years—and we do mean years—now. First it was to visit family and friends, and then, after Daddy died in 2000, the trips took on more poignancy. More urgency. We missed Mother and she missed us so off we went, over and over again. Although the grief has softened and our ties have grown stronger to Nashville, still we make the trip every six to eight weeks if possible.
Things have changed a bit now that Mother has been diagnosed with dementia and lives in a skilled care facility. She’s doing fine, but sometimes I wake up with a fright, once I realize I’m not in my home in Nashville; I haven’t slept on my overpriced mattress for people of a certain age who have bad backs; that my husband, Precious, won’t be bringing me coffee and that I will, instead, have to make my own in the dinky coffee maker in the hotel. And when that I happens I look something like this:
Feel free to provide your own caption.
MayBelle will start: “Good thing Precious doesn’t read our blog!”