Novels novels everywhere

I sit on the front porch, or the back deck with my mom.  Day in and day out.  I follow her conversations, when I can.  Nod indifferently when I can't, hoping that is a satisfying response.

I start novels in my head.

"All Mama does now is sit on the front porch with my grammy.  Before Grammy came to live with us, Mama had things to do, places she went, she liked to go to to the lake.  Before Grammy, Mama took me places, to the store late at night, and we would giggle that we were in barefoot as we picked out pints of ice cream.  Now Mama rushes to make more sweet tea so Grammy has it when she wants it.

I can hear Mama mumble to herself, as my room is right off the kitchen.  She says things like, "I swear that woman is going to drive me to drink"
She used to say that about us kids too when we were all little, but I have never seen her take a sip.

Just her sweet tea, and her diet soda that no one else in the house is allowed to have.

Life was different before Grammy came here."

That is one book, told from my daughter's point of view, except my daughter would not speak like that.  She is an amalgam of many people.  Maybe of all my children.

I do feel like I have abandoned them in a way to take care of Mom.

The Catholic guilt runs deep and the imaginary Nun speaks looming at me.  Finger waving in the air "You should never abandon your children, or your spouse (clearly this Catholic nun has no clue my spouse is a woman) you must take care of everyone and everything!  You are selfish and needy and you will burn in hell!"

My Catholic Nun is different from my Jewish (fictional) Grandmother.

"What were you expecting?  You are the girl of the family, you have to take care of everyone.  Quit kvetching, and get on with it.  Did you think you would have a life? (she fake spits)  That is for other people.  The Gentiles that don't care about family and throw their mothers into "homes"!  What kind of a home doesn't have kugel on Sundays?

No Bubbala, that is not a life for you, now come help your Bubby out of this Fercockt chair.  would it kill you to get me a barcalounger?  The Grossman's got one for their mother, but you? (fake spit again) I have to sit in this!"

In reality it is not so colorful.

During the time it took me to write this, I fed mom a Lean Cuisine, in a bowl, passing it off as my own.  Got her sweet tea, twice, took her to the bathroom once, fed the dogs, and just now filled the dog bowl with water and started to walk out front with it to give to my mom.

Okay.  Stop.  Deep breath.  Dog bowl in kitchen on the floor.  Sweet tea on counter for mom.

It is okay.  It is all okay.

Mom is getting ready for bed, and the cast of characters in my head are arguing amongst themselves. It is amazing how  my fictitious characters all get along enough to gang up on me!

As I tuck my mom, and my cast in bed for the night I take another deep breath in.

And listen for silence.