"Happy birthday," my mom surprises me.
"Happy birthday to you, too!" Our birthdays are two weeks apart. Her's is today. "What are you doing today?"
"We're having a party."
"Are you having cake?"
"Diere," she says, slipping into Waray for "no." She does this sometimes. Maybe it's her age. Maybe it's the stroke. Maybe she's out of practice since English is rarely used in the house nowadays. "I'm taking a bath now."
"Okay." It's easy to imagine her dropping the phone into the tub. She lost facility with her dominant hand after the stroke. I'm sure her nurse would rather have this conversation take place later.
"I love you," my mom tells me.
"I love you, too."
As we say this, I'm three years old again, squeezing myself into a ball between her right arm and hip, my head on her lap. We're sitting at church and I'm holding her left hand to my face, examining her wedding ring with my left eye, fixated on the the kaleidoscope, the colors under stained glass windows.
"Happy birthday to you, too!" Our birthdays are two weeks apart. Her's is today. "What are you doing today?"
"We're having a party."
"Are you having cake?"
"Diere," she says, slipping into Waray for "no." She does this sometimes. Maybe it's her age. Maybe it's the stroke. Maybe she's out of practice since English is rarely used in the house nowadays. "I'm taking a bath now."
"Okay." It's easy to imagine her dropping the phone into the tub. She lost facility with her dominant hand after the stroke. I'm sure her nurse would rather have this conversation take place later.
"I love you," my mom tells me.
"I love you, too."
As we say this, I'm three years old again, squeezing myself into a ball between her right arm and hip, my head on her lap. We're sitting at church and I'm holding her left hand to my face, examining her wedding ring with my left eye, fixated on the the kaleidoscope, the colors under stained glass windows.
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