Home

I'm sure I'm more upset by the packing up than my mom is. She thinks she's simply getting ready to go home. I see the bare walls and stacks of stuff ready to go and feel desolate. 

Today was interesting, though. We didn't go for a walk because it was raining, so we spent nearly two hours in the room. She surprised me by lying down on her bed and resting (with Surrey, the community dog, next to her), so I went with that. I trimmed her nails (hands and feet), then started looking for her lotion. That got us into all the stuff she'd packed up, and in doing so, we unpacked much of it. I left one basket unpacked and decided to just take it home with me later. She really doesn't have enough shelf space for all of it anyway.

While talking about going home it became clear that she is remembering the house she grew up in in Phoenix, the one on Roosevelt St. She remembers her kind neighbors, Babe and Grandma.  

I'm listening to the Hamilton soundtrack (repeatedly) in my car. The topic of "legacy" is big in that story. One line is, "Who tells our story?" I tell mom over and over how everyone who knows her thinks of her as kind and helpful. She remembers Babe and Grandma that way. Maybe there's not much more to aspire to.