Mum spent today in bed again. It’s been over a week. Well, I feel like I’m grinding through it, going to school every day, which takes my mind of stuff for a few hours. But each day I come home to find that Mum hasn’t moved. When I came home today, I found her listening to “Waters of March”. She and Dad didn’t have one ‘tune’ but I’d guess that one was probably in their top five. She’d put it on a continuous loop and was lying flat on their bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Since Dad’s death, jazz has been banned from our house. Miles Davis, Oscar Peterson, Stan Getz, Tom Jobim and all those guys – that’s my Dad’s music. Me, I’m not a fan but you get used to it. Mum and me - we have this unwritten rule, now. Hearing jazz is just too miserable – for us both.
And yet there she was, wallowing in it.
Well, I said nothing. Just closed the door quietly so that I didn’t have to listen.
I’m trying to keep things going here. I even cook sick-person food for Mum. Tomato soup with soft white bread. Chicken broth and buttered crackers.
But still she won’t eat. Finding out what really happened to my Dad seems to have finished her off.
What the heck am I supposed to do?
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