My Mother’s Voice

Alzheimer’s being the conniving thieving bitch that  it is, my mother wasn’t herself in the final years of her life. The  woman I visited in the Alzheimer’s special care unit was a stranger wearing my mother’s skin but not much else, like the invasion of the body snatchers had taken place, month after month beneath the surface, until one day we looked and the woman we knew was gone, replaced by some alien being. An imposter. Intruder alert. Intruder alert. She died back in 2012. Don’t worry; I won’t be getting maudlin on you.  My real mother–not that stranger in a wheel chair, head nodding on her shoulder–is who I want to think about today.  My real mother —Enid Maude Good nee Hayden, a prim, old-fashioned name, perhaps the only thing about her I didn’t love— was British-born and had a lovely London lilt to her voice her whole life even though she left England in the mid-1950’s. I suppose at thirty, her vocal patterns were already frozen in place.  Sounding like a cross between

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I’ll drink to that

I’m sick to death of writing about myself. I’m sick to death of my writing. It’s one and the same. I cant write fiction. Ive tried. Its just another story about me, supposedly incognito as a brunette instead of a blonde—a bottle blonde, at that. 
Thats this weeks excuse for not carrying on with my story about Derek. But really, do you even know or care who Derek is? Some boyfriend I had when I was twenty? Or was it nineteen? Is there a point?
Right now Im feeling like Richard Harris singing McCarthurs Park —

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
'Cause it took so long to bake it
And I'll never have that recipe again
Oh, no
I usually relish disappearing into my girlish headspace, settling back into the mushy comfort of memory but Im feeling too old and too cranky to even try. The cosmetics company that lured me into thinking I could erase my sixty two years with their magic cream insists on charging me $85 for a product that left me precisely 62.9 years old and looking every month of it. My ears are plugged, my back hurts, and it feels like the bear from the Revenant is sitting on my stomach. 
 It could be worse, I could be feeling like Richard Harris in A Man Called Horsehanging from hooks piercing my nipples. 

Its not a complete wash out, I learned on twitter that today is #NationalMargaritaDay. Whats an old girl like me to do but drink to it? 

IF you are interested in a boy called Derek, there’s a half dozen pieces filed under the Men tab. 


Cheers!

Comments

  1. I enjoy your writing! I'm also right there with you about some of my endeavors and feeling despairing of myself and how old I look. Thanks for the honest company.

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