This morning I ate a biscuit that was in the freezer. It was an orphan of a cellophaned pack of two. Presumably my mom ate the other one. It occurs to me that the ripples and impressions that Mom has made in life will disappear in order from the largest to the smallest, and this inexorable process has already begun.
It happens for everyone all the time, of course. When you stop talking, the echoes die away. When you leave a room, people start to forget what color your shirt was. Living people refresh those little memories all the time as they come back around, but mom’s little memories aren’t being refreshed anymore.
I took pictures around her room when I got here yesterday, so I’ll always know exactly how her things were, the way she left them, down to the wrinkles in her comforter that she threw aside to go to the hospital.
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