“Hello, ABBY!” Maga fairly shouted.
Unsure of whether she was happy to talk or chastising me for calling on a Wednesday rather than a Tuesday, I answered all of her (repeated) questions cheerfully and clearly as if to atone for my delayed call. Plus, I had a good reason for not being near my phone last night.
“There’s this senator from Massachusetts and she was having a party to celebrate her re-election.”
“Oooh.” Maga sounded suitably impressed. “Did you vote for her?”
“Where there many people there?”
“Where does she live?”
“Oh, this wasn’t at her house. It was at a hotel downtown.”
“So it wasn’t invitation only?”
“Nope. Not this time. I’m just one of the constituents she represents.”
“Did you vote for her?”
“How old is she?”
“Late 60s, I believe.”
“Oh, so she’s more advanced shall we say.”
When Maga was with the conversation, her humor and sharp intelligence were top notch, even though I wasn’t sure which age scale she was referring to. Mine? Hers? If 69 years old is advanced, what’s 97, almost 98? But then she lost the thread and we did a few more rounds of repeated questions. We spoke about our weekend visitors and I jogged her memory about where I went to high school.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. I know,” she said. “I’m pulling myself together.”
And for the remainder of the conversation, she persisted.