“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?”
“I did.”
“Where there many people there?”
“Tons.”
“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?”
“I did.”
“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.
Abigail Mumford 