Yeah, yeah, I know. Five minutes ago, I was on the counter, next to the toaster, and now I’m gone and you can’t understand how that happened.
Remember those stories about when the kids know it’s time to put mother in a home. They always seem to center around the refrigerator and food.
How old are you now? Sixty-five. Seventy? And you’re going to make believe you’re shocked that you can’t find me? Please, sister, I am not the hair you pluck from your chin and pretend never existed. I am the forerunner of really scary aging; the container of milk you will find in the cabinet under the silverware drawer only when it starts to smell; the day you put the car into reverse and slam through a Starbucks window; the brain atrophying like a desiccated apple in the back of the fridge.
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