Heptadecagon

I had blocked off Tuesday morning as the day to run a few errands and to wrap my presents for the kids. (Thank goodness that Santa's presents arrive wrapped already. I mean, who has time to do his job, right?) So I found myself standing at the dining table, scissors in one hand, tape in the other, staring at the colorful wrapping paper spread out before me. I was there--in Ohio, in my house--and yet I wasn't. For my mind immediately jumped to my mom and her ability to wrap presents. From a young age, I was awed by the gifts my mother would churn out. Perfect corners, straight ribbons, bows that curled (before you could buy the already-curled bows). I'd attend birthday parties and mothers would comment on how nicely wrapped the gift was. Sometimes, people would ask me if I had the store do the wrapping. "Nope," I'd say. "My mom wrapped it for me." I felt proud of Mom at those moments. These are not presents my mother wrapped. I found the picture...

It's 6:55 p.m. and the house is closed. The front porch light is already on and she's shut the curtains in the kitchen window. Her arms extend to draw the drapes covering the sliding glass doors. "Can you leave that open, please?" I ask, so that I can see what I'm doing by the wonderful almost-summer light. The days are longer and I like to revel in that fact. She used to be the same way. And I think to myself, how many years do I have left? How many years do I have to recognize my children and remember that I love strawberries and pineapple? How long will I be able to run, and cook, and write, and read? Will I be 70 and already to the point that she is: turning in for the night early, falling asleep to the chatter of the television, waking up the next day to repeat everything all over again. And when I say repeat, you know exactly what I mean: the constant wandering and spinning of wheels such that each day flows into the next and the next. How long, I ask? I...

I called her because I was worried. She had just visited me a few weeks prior, and I couldn't determine whether the memory loss I thought she had experienced resulted from years of depression, aging, or something worse--such as Alzheimer's. In the time since I'd seen her, I had written her a letter and sent it to her. The letter served as an outline of sorts, the symptoms I watched creep up on her like a stealthy cat: the repetition of stories, the look of confusion when I asked if she knew how to get to the store, the jumbled conversations that held no meaning. I refused to believe that these changes simply hitched a ride with the passing years and I felt compelled to plead my case. "I don't have a memory problem," she said into the phone. I would have liked to have been in the room with her when we spoke instead of 200 miles away. I imagined her knuckles, white as copy paper as she gripped the receiver, and the lines of her lips thin from the pressure of...

Two days without posting, and I'm sure you missed me. (Go ahead and admit it, I know you did. Except for FRN, because I was actually in the same state that she was, having fun at her wedding shower. And probably not Ben, either, who I have found out is just as loyal as FRN or LRN, and so I must -- I MUST -- find another acronym for him. But we had fun at his house, too, so I know he wasn't missing us. In fact, he was probably trying to find ways to get six people out of his house a little sooner. How's that for what was supposed to be ONE parenthetical phrase??) Well sadly, the time has come (as it has for a few summers now), where my ability to post and write dwindles because of the invasion. I might have a lot to say, but little time to write it down. Or, I might be so busy because of the invasion, that I won't even have anything to say. What invasion, you ask? The invasion of my house. By my sister and her kids. I probably shouldn't use the word invasion , be...