Her mother's voice

Margie seemed a bit disheveled and confused when I arrived in the afternoon for our usual visit. As she settled into her chair and pulled up the blanket, I asked if I had waked her.

“Yes,” she admitted, a little non-plussed. “I guess I’m moving into the two-naps-a-day phase. Not good.” She wagged a finger with some force of judgment.

—Why not good? I asked.

“Because I didn’t walk far this morning when I went out. So that’s two strikes against me.”

—What’s the penalty for two strikes?

“I’ll get a C on my report card,” she laughed.

I laughed with her and said who’s doing the grading? 

“Me I guess,” she grimaced playfully, and then after a pause, “It’s my mother really, but I can’t blame her. She’s been dead forever, and I’ve buried her and laid down her voice a million times, but I wake up and she’s there again, pointing a finger at me, telling me I’m lazy and no good.”

—Do you believe her?

She leaned her head back and laughed. “How old am I?”

—Ninety-seven.

“Ninety-seven and still failing to please my mother! I wish I could give myself a break!”

That led to more reminiscences of her mother and father, and the afternoon passed sweetly. This week she had no questions for me about current events. A blessing. It only occurred to me after I came home that we had a time change on the weekend, so by our inner time clocks, it's an hour earlier than the time the world has decided it is; so by her old clock, it was perfectly reasonable to be napping.