Today's advice:

McBeth.

Always begin with dessert.

If you still have room after the good stuff is in, then try the veggies.

My reject crayon

You are

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

I had the horrifying realization this morning that I have no photographs of my son with his great-grandmother from her 90th birthday party this past weekend.

Grandma has been a life-long reader. She used to read daily devotions every day (EVERY day) at the breakfast table with Grandpa. As a child I was mystified how she must have trained my grumbly Irish grandfather to listen to religious dictates according to the Lutheran church; eventually I settled on the idea that breakfast was probably a good time to get him to set still and he'd probably listen to anything so long as he had a strong cup of coffee, toast, and some thick stick-to-his-ribs oatmeal; if it didn't hold his attention it would at least hold him to his chair. When we would visit them in their yellow house next to the woods we would also sit through the daily devotions, followed by hand holding and a prayer at the end. The process made me want to giggle when I was little; it touches me now.

Sunday I flagged J. down in the dayroom to come kneel next to me, next to Grandma. I (re)introduced Grandma to her first great-grandchild, reminding her of his name and age. I told her about how he's such a good fella and how well he's doing in school. His cheeks pinked up and he laughed nervously as she looked him up and down and back up again wordlessly.

Her eyes settled back down on the shirt he was wearing. "Slacker", she said.

I glanced over at J. and laughed. He was wearing one of my favorite t-shirts which reads "How to be a slacker:" with three squares of stick images across the chest.

1. Don't get a job.
2. Borrow $ from your parents.
3. Join a garage band.

"Yep, that's what it says ... slacker", I chuckled, "do you know what a slacker is?"

"Well", she said and then paused. "I think I do, but I might be wrong about that".

I explained that a slacker is another term for a lazy person, then reassured her that the t-shirt is especially funny to me because J. really isn't one.

"Slacker", she repeated, "It says slacker".

Later that day I was driving J. to his friend's house. We were talking about his great-grandmother and he made noises about having been dressed inappropriately for her party. I couldn't imagine a 15-year old kid thinking a t-shirt and khakis being 'inappropriate' so asked for clarification. He didn't understand her dementia and her in/outness and he'd misunderstood her focus on his t-shirt as though she really did think HE was a slacker. He felt bad about it in that way that he couldn't say it exactly, but I totally understood as soon as I recognized his noises.

I touched his leg, reassuring him that he looked great and that his great-grandma has the same very curious sense of humor that most of the folks in our family have. I promised him that she wasn't the least bit offended and that she loved seeing him - seeing all of us - even if she doesn't remember it for more than a few minutes.

I think I will squirrel his t-shirt away once he's outgrown it so it doesn't accidentally get freecycled or tossed. I love that shirt. And the kid. And I could just kick myself for not having the presence of mind to have snapped a shot of J. and his great-grandmother this weekend.

A bottle of red

McBeth.

I never understood a single word he said but I helped him drink his wine... and he always had some mighty fine wine.

-3 Dog Night

Tiny fall

McBeth.

Digital bleariness suggests pre-dawn
In another room the cat scratches her neck,
distant jingling of tags

No sirens out the window,
no street talk at this hour,
Only her breathing now,
suspended in a sighing loop

from where my left hand snakes
from her soft breast
to the goosebumped flesh of her thigh

How did I get this permission?
Where are my qualifications?
Am I authorized?

She allows me in easily
Unencumbered.
Breathless, delicious, wet,
like a deep green forest
She welcomes me home.

She holds tightly to me,
trusting me with her tenderest pieces
while I guide us to the edge
for early morning freefall.

Grandma's fingers

McBeth.

One of Grandma's things now is to tuck food and small items into neatly-folded tissues, tuck the folded tissues inside her waistband, and surprise the staff later with all sorts of goodies when it's time to put pjs on. Currently an earpiece is missing for one of her hearing aids which likely went the way of the waistband or is tucked away somewhere for safekeeping, hidden so well no one will see it again.

There was a certain amount of controlled yelling one had to do to communicate well to be heard, but on a very intimate level I reminded Grandma today at her 90th birthday party celebration that I always loved the shape of her fingernails and how, as a child, I always hoped I'd have pretty fingernails like hers. And that I hated my next-younger sister for some time because SHE got those lovely fingernail genes and I was, instead, given stumpy sausage fingers with tiny nailbeds.

Grandma laughed.

It helped wash away a small portion of the guilt I've been carrying for a long time, when it became too hard to visit her regularly. When she didn't just confuse my dad's name for my deceased grandfather's name, but when she really just didn't recognize anyone anymore.

The staff at The Carrington will have to hustle to keep up with her tonight: with visitors brings confusion, and that means the door alarms will be shocking them all awake, looking for which way Dorothy went this time. There's a part of her mind that I believe is absolutely clear; a smooth undemented piece of tranquility within her that knows she was married for 60 years, she did own a home with Les and raised four children together. She did drive a car, dammit, and she does deserve to take a long walk out in the fresh air whenever she pleases.