Mom’s birthday was last month.
We went to the nursing home for it. We’d been there for a little while when Mom invited me to read a nice birthday card. I sent the kid off to play the piano in the lobby, and sat down to read it.
It was from her nursing home bestie. The card was nice, but the note inside was lovely, tinged with the bittersweet beauty of nursing home residents who have their mental faculties but know the end is near. They’ve done it all, seen it all, and now they wait like sardines to cross over the rainbow. But somehow these two have forged a friendship.
It all took my breath away.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, whispering as I handed it back.
Mom tucked it into the basket she keeps on her tray table.
“Yeah, well, she wants something. Bad.”
“She wants a cheap bottle of champagne from the drug store. Think you can handle it?”
My own life is complete. My mom has enlisted me as a drink mule.