In order to avoid another go ’round about the weather, I asked Maga if she’d had any visitors lately.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Quite a few.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“They were, you know, out-of-towners.”
“I assumed so.”
“Were they relatives? Friends? Neighbors?”
“As I say, they were out-of-towners.”
Perhaps if you say something repeatedly, it’ll be true. (Like if you stand in front of a mirror at night and say… you know what, nope. Never mind. Not going there.)
“Are you coming for my birthday?” Maga asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“How old will I be?”
“99.”
“I hope I last.”
“You will.”
“I’m planning on it.”
Maybe she should say it aloud a few more times to make it so?
“What airport are you going to to get to me?” she asked.
“Denver.”
“Where?”
“DIA.”
“Oh, yes. That’s near where I live.”
“Yup. It’s not that far from you.”
“It was built recently, so it’s convenient and handy and so on.”
One, it was built in 1995. I guess when you’re 99 and 11 months old, that is recent, so… Two, she’s stating things into fact again. This time she was at least using a thesaurus. Three, I gotta try this speaking things into existence gig.
“I’m going to win the lottery. I’m going to win the lottery. I’m going to win the lottery.”
*waits for it to start raining money. or men.*
Abigail Mumford 