Author: abby mumford

“Well, I’m eating dinner right now,” Maga said.

“Lunch,” her caregiver called.

“I’m eating lunch right now,” Maga said.

“As long as you’re eating, the meal doesn’t matter!” I said. “What are you eating?”

“Let’s see. Chicken. Broccoli. What’s this?”

“An orange,” her caregiver called.

“What?”

“An orange,” Caregiver M repeated.

“What?”

“Fruit, Maga. An orange,” I said.

“Oh, an orange.”

“Thank you, Abby,” Caregiver M called. It’s a give and take here.

“What we were talking about?” Maga asked.

“Just making idle chit chat.”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“It’s wonderful to hear your voice,” I said.

“I’m so glad you can do that.” Spoken with the confidence of a 99yo. “Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“In [Town].”

“Yes! Good memory. Very near your college.”

“What a good time that was. I really liked my time there.”

Her speech was lucid and her memory was firing on all cylinders, so I decided to push it. “How did decide to go there?”

“You know, I don’t really remember how. It’s a well known school. I had a hard time deciding, but I’m glad I went there. It was a happy experience. I was a happy person there.”

Bright, silver notes threaded through her tone illuminating that happiness.

“I had many good friends there. Where did you go?”

“I went to your state, Virginia, to a school called James Madison University.”

“What did you like about it?”

“Hmm. Same as you, I think. My friends. I have wonderful friends from there. Also, the part where I got to study abroad in England.”

“Oh, I bet you enjoyed that. I’d forgotten you got to do that.”

“I’d happily go back in a heartbeat. Heck, I’d settle for just out of state. I’d love to see my family!”

“I’d love to see you too.”

“You’re at the top of my list.”

“I believe you’re the first person I’ve spoken to today.”

“Maga. You were just on the phone with my mom.”

“Who’s your mom again?”

“[C]. Your eldest.”

“Oh, yes. My firstborn. She got me first or I got her first.”

“Exactly.”

“I did talk to her.”

“You get to talk to her way more than I do.”

“I don’t think so.”

“She calls you every day! I can’t get her to do that for me.”

Maga laughed. “That’s funny you say that.”

It was a gentle laugh. I’m not entirely sure if she was laughing with me or at me, or at the thought someone would prioritize her, or at the realization she didn’t remember the frequency with which they talked. I took it as a signal her her memory was no longer firing on all cylinders, and, grateful for the time I got tonight, allowed her to go back to her lunch food at dinnertime.

“Hi, Maga. It’s Abby.”

“Hi, Abby dear.”

“How are you?”

“Well, I’m here.”

“That’s enough for me!”

“What did you do today?”

“Let’s see. It was a very busy work day, and then I talked with a friend as it’s her birthday.”

“How old is he?”

“She is 39.”

“Your son?!”

I burst out laughing. “No, no. My friend. I don’t have a son.”

“How could you have a son that age?”

“I don’t have a son that age or any age.”

“Whose birthday was it?”

“My friend. Girl friend. From college. School. Friend.” I threw a whole bunch of words out there to see what would stick.

“What day is today?” Maga said.

“Tuesday.”

“Oh, yes. The day you usually call.”

“I’m nothing if not consistent,” I said.

“No, I think not.”

I took a moment to puzzle it out and came to zero conclusions, so decided it was best to switch things up. “Are you watching TV?”

“Yes.”

I was about to ask a follow-up question when she continued speaking. “This talented love man. I don’t know who he is.”

“Nor I.” Nor I, dear reader, as he’s woefully absent from my life.

“This crazy man. He has a piece of toast. He’s wearing it.”

“Toast?”

“T-O-A-S-T.” Maga spelled for me.

“And he’s wearing it?”

“Yes. It’s a crazy program.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You’re such a dear relative to call. Thank you.”

And just like that, I was dismissed. I guess I wasn’t surprised, really, because a talented love man wearing toast? I’d rather pay attention to that too.

“I just woke up from a nap, so I’m feeling refreshed,” Maga said.

“What else have you gotten into today?”

“Not much.”

“Did you read the newspaper? Watch tv?”

“No, not really. I’m here with [Caregiver M] and I talked on the phone to some people. That’s about the sum total of it.”

“That sounds like a good day.”

“Did you read the newspaper?” Maga asked.

“Nope. I get my news from the internet.”

“Oh, yes, from the TV.”

“Sure.”

“I suppose I should read the newspaper.”

“Not if you don’t want to! How’s your weather there?”

“The sky is blue and clear and lovely. Just the kind of day you like to have.”

It was a good reminder that even in quarantine, even at 99 years old, there are things to look forward to. Like phone calls. And the sky. And naps.

“The sun is out. The sky is blue, partially blue. How’s it where you are?” Maga asked, in 1,000% more words than she said to me last night.

“Same really. Lots of sunshine and blue skies. It’s about 65 degrees. It’s lovely.”

“Is it that warm here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m in MA.”

“What day is today? Saturday or Sunday?”

“Actually, it’s Wednesday, but most days feel like Saturdays lately. Where are you sitting?”

“No, I’m at my desk.”

“Why aren’t you in your blue chair in the living room?”

“Because I like to look out the window. There’s not much traffic today.”

“I’d guess not since visitors aren’t allowed.”

“No. It’s awful.”

“But they’re doing it to keep you safe from all the germs,” I said.

“I know. I should appreciate it more, but it’s sort of a nuisance.”

Oops. My bad. I totally understand the annoyance of someone telling you what you already know!

“Well,” I said, “thank goodness for your windows.”

“Yes. Nice big ones.”

I snickered. I couldn’t help my juvenile sense of humor. Maga barreled on with the conversation.

“We’re in that terrible period where we don’t know the way forward.”

I was blown back by the clarity of her statement and could do no more than nod in agreement, as my juvenile sense of humor was promptly put on the shelf to make way for adulthood.

“Hi, Maga. It’s Abby.”

“Hello there.” Maga’s voice was slow and slurred.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry!”

“Well, it’s nightfall, so it’s time to go to sleep.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello.”

“I love hearing your voice. Thank you for calling.”

I know she won’t remember this tiny blip of a conversation, but I wonder if it’ll infiltrate her dreams?