Only Sunday Gets a Note
Mom writes on the fridge every time my sister calls. Nothing's ever written about the six days I'm actually here.
the note's been up since sunday. "S called! she sounds so good, isn't that nice." mom's handwriting, the loopy kind she still uses for shopping lists, stuck to the fridge with the magnet from the aquarium we went to when I was nine.
I made her lunch today. I got her socks off before she noticed her feet had gone cold, which she never notices until they're basically blue. I sat with her through the part of the afternoon where she asks me three times if I fed the cat, and we haven't had a cat since dad.
there's no note for that. there isn't a magnet big enough.
I'm not saying it to be dramatic. I know what's actually wrong with her and I know a phone call from six states away doesn't fix any of it. I just keep finding reasons to be in the kitchen around four, when the light hits the fridge a certain way, so I can look at the note again like it might finally say a different name.
it never does. sunday, sounds so good, isn't that nice.
tomorrow I'll make the same lunch and cut the sandwich the way she likes and not mention any of this, because the second I say it out loud I become the daughter keeping score, and I would rather be tired than be her.