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Mom, after finishing her supper and
taking her seven pills
one by one by one,
asked me to take her to the
bathroom. She sat on the toilet
and slowly rubbed her temple.
Mom is eighty-five years old.
She is frail, foggy, hard of hearing,
totally blind, good-natured almost always.
“Want some chocolate?” I asked.
“I’d love some.”
“Want it now?”
She did not hear, did not reply. I went
to the kitchen and got a handful of
chocolate chips, came back,
and spilled them from
my palm to my mother’s.
“Oh, my goodness!” she said.
“Eat them. That’s a proper dose.”
She ate them.
A minute passed, and then she said,
“I never knew.
That chocolate.
Could cure a headache.”
“And does it?”
“Mmh!”
“And does it?” I asked again.
“It does!”
♦
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