I see Mom in her bedroom, changing her sheets.
"It's so much harder because I can't see," she says. "Everything's all fuzzy."
"Let me help."
"No, I've got to do things myself," Mom says, but I pitch in anyway.
"Sandy and I do this together at home. It's a lot faster that way."
Mom pulls the sheets up with me on one side and her on the other. She touches the edges, feeling if the sheet is even. I notice she tucks the corners in with precise hospital folds. I make mine just like hers, only backwards.
With the bedspread added, she touches the side seam and says, "Oh, we have this backwards." We flip the spread ninety degrees, and her fingers trace the seam, ensuring the fit is even.
"I wish I could see better," she says.
"There are a lot of people who are ninety who wish they could do what you do."
"There are a lot of people who are ninety who are dead. The only thing they're doing is pushing up daisies."
"I'm glad I can help."
"Both you boys are good boys. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"We don't know what we'd do without you."
"Well, you'll just have to get by."
"But not for a while."
"A while will be OK."
(Posted from my iPhone. Copyright 2015 by Thomas L. Kepler, all rights reserved.)