“Son? Son?”Mom’s high-pitched voice is clear despite the winds whipping around the old house. I grit my teeth and measure out another brandy, choosing to stare at a spot on the worn oriental carpet in front of the desk rather than meet her accusing gaze. I can feel it drilling into the top of my head.
Not sure whether to yip, yowl or growl, her old boxer looks up from the hearth and boofs at a spot between the mantle and the bookcase where mom is usually standing in her flowery sack dress and drooping stockings.
“Son? Son?”
I gulp the tumbler, gathering strength and look up, “Please, ma, go to sleep, wouldya?”
She goes now, slinking slowly down the wall. She always goes once I acknowledge she’s in the room. I see more of mom since inheriting the old farm, than I ever did when she was alive.
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