“Did I do anything for your last birthday?” I asked Laurel this morning.
I honestly couldn’t remember. Laurel’s birthday and my mother’s deathday were too close together.
“Uh-huh,” she answered. “You made rice.”
Not really sure that will win me any parenting awards. Rice. In the microwave.
But it is one of her favorites.
November was a blur.
“Did I buy you any presents?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she answered. “Pajamas.”
At least it wasn’t socks and underwear.
Wait — maybe I got her those, too, and she was too polite to tell me.
I remember so little of that month.
Did we celebrate Thanksgiving? Did I make the turkey?
What did I do for the 30 days that November hath?
I looked through the pictures on my computer for clues.
Here is the story they told:
My sister and I helped my father.
On Laurel’s birthday, I went for a walk.
I made the previously mentioned rice — and some chicken to go with it. Broccoli, too, but it didn’t make the photo.
And all through November, life continued.
We played games.
I sat at the Columbarium.
I noticed a sunrise.