If I slipped a quaalude into the water she called coffee--made with three spoons of Maxwell House per 12 cup pot--it didn't slow her down, the residue of fifty nicotine filled years coursing through bloodstream. Oxygen machine meant to give life, but we knew the reverse was true. Briefly removing the tubes, putting a tissue to nose, she still spoke strongly of macaroni and cheese mixed with tuna Fridays during lent, family, white toast cut crosswise, a margarine tub, and gallons of milk with spaghetti, piping hot Prego, and big round meatballs--what a treat.
I dodged the soft balls of family pride meant to string in the cats cradle of love breaking through our confused clan. She wondered at the appeal of sushi, atheism, contemporary films with F this and F that, as a child dreamed of being a Rockette not vice chair for Minnesota IRs. But looking back, she likely thought, she had it all, not unlike Frank Sinatra, so lying in ER the breathless word was "no" and dad's deep emptiness against doctor's urging, let her go.
I smiled lightly when escape came. "There's never enough time", "touché," she smiled back, "true", and I promised with a kiss to see her in the summer.
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