“What did you do today,” Maga asked, giving no indication she remembered talking to me earlier.
“I worked, played squash at lunch, and went to the library.”
“Did you pick up a…” she paused, thinking hard for a word, “good book?”
“I did.”
“What it called?”
I paused thinking of the best way to handle this one word title that I just knew she wouldn’t be able to make out if I spoke it. “The title is S-L-A-Y.”
“Oh, Slay. Is it…” she paused again searching for a word.
“It’s fiction and judging from the name, I think it’s kind of violent.”
“Well, there’s a bathroom that’s not very nice.”
“Huh?”
“Peyton Manning is looking for a home.”
“Huh?”
“H-O-M-E.”
I bit back my laughter and my retort at the incorrect assumption she made. It was time for me to just go where the conversation led. I could hear the TV on in the background, so I had a good idea of where this might end up.
“I’ve never enjoyed watching food on TV,” Maga said.
The comment was out of the blue and yet it was in sync with what I was expecting. You see we got a worrisome note this morning from Mom regarding Maga and I wasn’t sure what to expect on the other end of the phone tonight. Sure her confusion with people and words has increased over the past few weeks, but she’s always maintained a relatively chipper attitude with me. A benefit of being a granddaughter and not a daughter, I suspect. I know she’s 98 and slowing down and so I accept my duties to offer sunshine and support in whatever measures I can, even if it means settling in for an in-depth discussion of tonight’s TV programming.
Abigail Mumford 