My Good Fortune

               I have been alone in the house for ten minutes.  I can hardly believe my good fortune.

               A little while ago, John called over for Mom to tend a fire.  (What that really means is that John is going to burn some paper trash while Mom does something in the vicinity.  I just spotted her tossing rocks from her rock pile beside the dry pond to the center of the dry pond.  And, yes, that is the same dry pond she swept and hoed several summers ago.  I guess she is filling it in now.)

               After I help her out the door—making sure she is wearing coat, hat, and gloves—I hurriedly pull the file marked “1915” from the file cabinet in the front closet.  Yes, I am typing up my grandparents’ letters but haven’t told Mom I’ve finally started that project because I am pretty certain it is the one thing that would stick in her memory—and having her mention it every other minute would spoil it for me.   I’ve already done the January correspondence:  33 typed pages. 

               Thinking fast, I remember various items I want to throw away:  a broken glass, old hand lotion tubes, a couple disposable plastic containers, the ever-present stack of Popsicle sticks, and half a loaf of stale bread.  I bag it all up in record time and deliver it post-haste to the outdoors trash can. 

               Now I sit at my computer, with the first free flow of my own words in days.  I must write fast, though, for I doubt it will be long before I hear the front door open:  my concentration flies out when she slams the door shut.

               Whoosh!  Bang!   Wow.  A whole 25 minutes.  Here we go again.