Commune

I sold my mothers dining room table last night. One of the last things my mother mentioned to me, in her right mind, was what a poor job I was doing taking care of it. She was right but I like to believe it came alive in the second part of it’s life, rather than sitting lonely in a room waiting for people to commune around it only a few times a month.

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Mon Day

I sat there like it was a park bench on a beautiful day, looking out across the expense. My heart was breaking, my eyes tearing, all the while not surprised by this result. I kept reasoning, “This the natural progression of dementia. The goal is to help her let go.” Perhaps I had to let go too.

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