I’ve been pushing stones to the tops of mountains trying to keep Mom encouraged and hopeful as she languishes in rehab, trying to get her strength up enough for them to release her home. I’ve been going every day and staying with her three or four hours. I’ve been climbing across officials’ desks and grabbing them by the lapels and pulling their hair and threatening their families and kicking butt and taking names.
So yesterday I couldn’t go because it snowed its brains out and nobody plowed our road. Mom called this morning to tell me I’d better not come.
The day went by and I heard no more.
In the evening, I called her. “I thought you’d call me back,” I said.
“I meant to, but I kept getting interrupted,” she said, in a lilty, chirpy voice. “I have a dog in my room. Well, people, too.” She giggled.
“Oh,” I said. “Call me back when your company’s gone.”
“Okay.” Click. And much time passes.
So now I know: All I needed to do was stay away and send a dog. Either that, or I want what’s she’s having.