Mother's birthday was today. Or maybe yesterday. I'm really not sure. I have never forgotten the date of my father's birthday--January 13. But I'm confused about my mother's birthday except I recall it as an even number. I don't think it is March 26. I'm torn between March 24 and March 28. For many years my siblings and I never knew the exact year of her birth. She would refuse to tell us. We knew that my father was born in 1925, but my mother would only intimate that it might have been 1932. There were aunts, however, on both sides of the family, who dismissed that year as untrue. She was older they would insist. It wasn't until late in life that she confessed the truth. She was born in 1930, which means she is 90 as she embarks on her tenth decade, her health steady although she lives immured in her small house that resembles a cottage in the country embellished by the same flowers whose ancestors bloomed when I was a child. I am the oldest of the eigh...
Olivia, who has been showing an increasing concern as the news grows more dire with people dropping like flies in New York and Coronavirus invading Cameron County while Trump gesticulates wildly that he is innocent, seemed more perturbed than usual as was easily discernible in her concentrated countenance. "What's the matter, honey," I asked as I savored an early afternoon beer while tuning my guitar. "We are down to our last roll of toilet paper and the store shelves are empty," she huffed. "You need to follow my example." "I can only imagine but tell me anyway." "You remember that I was suffering from hemorrhoids, right?" "Of course. I mistook your balls for hemorrhoids. How can I forget!!!" "Besides eating the wrong foods that irritate my exit, there are particles of shit that remain in your asshole that no amount of wiping can eliminate. I don't know the exact matter I stumbled upon the solution, but after I f...
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