My daddy don't tolerate my assistance eating his ground-up barbecue beef supper with cooked cabbage and a sugar cookie. He's slapping at me to cease and desist, and trying to push his tray onto the floor. I know when I'm not welcome. Adios, I'm out of here.
Brought along Dad's comforter to wash out the spilled tomato juice. It was just a V8 insult added to aesthetic injury. My sister had to buy this dreadful star quilt in a hurry at Target when she moved Dad from assisted living to skilled care a year and a half ago. Countless industrial launderings have only made it uglier. Something snapped and I pulled the Buick over to toss the comforter in a dumpster. Dad probably doesn't care, but I can't look at that comforter one more day.
On the good side, a black swallowtail laid eggs on the dill plant in our school garden late this afternoon. We keep hoping.. I'll take Dad a well-worn bedspread that used to belong to the Woolly Mammoth tomorrow.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder
1 comment:
Some comforters do not comfort.
Some swallowtails...do!!
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