I bring the package to a post office 20 minutes away from my hometown.
In my local post office, the clerks have no sense of humor. One town over, the postal clerks are much too officious, and one town away from them, the line is always too long and the lobby smells of old wet non-delivered letters.
I don’t want to be rushed or frowned on or holding my nose when I send a precious package to my mom. She lives seven hours away and misses me. My packages are one way for us to feel closer.
I sidle up to the “friendly” post office counter, trying to look relaxed and casual. “Do you think I’m being too optimistic?” I ask shyly, pushing my parcel in front of the male clerk. Continue reading
I’m about to leave the house at 5:45 a.m. for a long seven-hour drive to Delaware to visit my mom.
I shower and dress and gulp down a quick cup of “wake-me-up” tea quietly so I don’t wake up my sleeping guy. I even tiptoe while hunting for my shoes and lugging my suitcase to the trunk of the car.
My mom is anxiously awaiting me. At 92 and diagnosed with dementia, days and hours and weeks all merge into one long wait for her. I want to get there as soon as possible for the weekend visit.
I walk to the hallway table, the one whose drawer holds all the keys to our life: cars, house, mailbox, and a few that are “mystery keys” (as in, what the heck does this key open?).
I reach for my car keys and stop in horror. Continue reading