11:40 at night.  The kitchen.  Cluttered surface tops, 4 opened small plastic bottles of Pepsi with about a half an inch in each.  The cat has been fed.

Mom comes down, so I have to wait to do the dishes on account of her complaining about any noise I might make.  I'm starving, she says.  Well, what do you want, the lemon chicken, a glumpki, or a slice of pizza...  Pizza, she says.  She shuffles on uncertain feet, still in her Keen's hiking shoes, over the fridge, takes out a small bottle of Pepsi.  I hear the hiss as she opens the top.  She rummages along the countertop, as I get the pizza slice out of the box, onto a piece of foil to put into the toaster over.  Mom, do you want a Saltine?  Yes.  She sits down at the table.  I've got my laptop out, prepared to take my nightly daily notes, so she sits in my normal seat.  Ahh, she says.  Pepsi hits the spot.  "Pepsi Cola hits the spot, two full glasses, that's a lot," she states, not quite singing, an old advertising song.

She eats her slice of pizza, it's thick crust, with knife and fork, working her way, picking the good stuff off the top, on up to the crust.  She tells me I look frustrated.  I turn my head and look over my shoulder back at the cluttered countertop.  I mention the four open Pepsi bottles, gone flat by now.  That's your domain, over there, I don't go over there, she says.

She looks at my belly.  "Yes, mom, that's the three slices of bread I wolfed down at Canale's when he brought the check, I was hungry still."  I don't mention the death of Joan, mom's friend since they had their first babies at the same time.

She eyes me as she picks at her plate.  "You hate me," she says.  "That's why I don't sleep, because you hate me."  Mom, I don't hate you.  She can see I'm looking at my laptop, the modern typewriter, with a forlorn sort of goddamn, if she weren't here, dragging me down, I could get something done.  She picks up on such things.

Did you sleep okay?  Well, mom.  Let's see.  I got up at about two in the afternoon, after being awake til about six in the morning.  I fed you lunch, and then I went to the grocery store, then I came back, and took you to The Press Box for dinner, and then, because of all the pollen I took a nap, and now I'm awake again.

Oh.

"I'm in your way.  Thank you for the food," she says, getting up, clutching her Pepsi, shuffling off.  "Am I going the right way," she asks.

To keep her entertained, over dinner, at The Press Box, as she let me go and do my errands without weighing me down with her indecisive impatient presence, oh, look at that blue car, oh, they're making a lot of white cars these days, I don't remember a day like this...  at least it's not snowing... and I almost feel guilty having spared myself of that, having a decent and helpful conversation with my aunt as I sat in the car, with the AC on, in the Big M parking lot, touching on what might be good travel days for going there.  

They turn out to be full, so we take a high table by the bar against the window.  They have a group of 24 out on the porch.  Inside is full.  I get mom up on the bar chair the hostess offers as a replacement for the bar stool.  Anyway, mom is leaning over her shoulder trying to talk to the three year old boy and the two year old girl with at the booth with their friends, and soon, to my tastes you can sense her interest is getting a little repetitive, unreserved, too much, creepy.  So I distract her, call her back, and tell her my thoughts on Vonnegut and all he went through, and what Dresden had been like.  I have to explain it to her a couple of times, after I explained Cuomo the Governor of New York State, who did so well with the Covid briefings a year ago, but had things to hide, three times, and then what else.  I know as I speak about Vonnegut that I'm ruining the holy energy that sustains writing momentum.  "You're like my father, always ruining my fun," she says when again I attempt to bring her back my way, not turned toward the children, creepy old lady, and here I am with no children of my own, no wife, nothing.

Still, she's turning over her shoulder and looking at the kids, which is halfway nice, but interfering with the peace of the table.  I tell her about Sam Clemens, Mark Twain.  Where was he from mom?  What did he do?  She comes up with it, "steam boats."  Yes!  And growing up on the Mississippi and being a riverboat captain, well, that gave him a background, a solidity.  So that when he took his big risk, renting out the hall to deliver a lecture about his travels, shy and sick to his stomach, he was a great hit.  Mom, people guffawing in the aisles...

Later I found at, as I always do.  You have to learn to protect the sacred process.  And you find when you try to come back to it, it's not there anymore.

There's a downpour outside.  And later, a big ship down by the Port of Oswego unloading container boxes with huge on board cranes.  The new agricultural grain hub.  I take her around in the little old car to show her different angles, the huge ship, the new grain elevator structure with the concrete pouring crane set up.

So many years went by, when my mother intended to block off her sister, and even my being in contact with my aunt.  Crazy jealousy.  And all those years, worn out, manipulated, I missed all my aunt's love and sound advice and help, until things got worse and worse and finally pretty bad.

I've always had to fight, it seems, with that feeling of being a creep.  It came upon me later.  Too much an oddball, all at once, all of a sudden, like Hemingway character going broke.  So whenever I do anything, I'm stuck with that sense of looking over my back, because, well, I seem to be different, or use to being apart, in it, but not off it, as they say.  Ahh, the Jessica Dorfmanns of the world.  And you can't blame them.  It's fair, the female of the species is choosing the best male for her offspring...  And if they have to get rid of you, so they will do.  A foolish thing, rejection, for a male to dwell on for more than an afternoon.  It takes a toll, so, my advice, avoid it at all costs, it will ruin your life.

But that's ultimately where your author voice comes from, from this odd perspective, of a person who doesn't fit in any way.  That's the hope.  If you can translate all your own rotten prose and lack of a story back into your own voice, and it fits, without bending you too far, and you're happy with your persona and not disgusted with yourself, then you've got something.

The kitchen.  I made some decent choices at the grocery store, provisions for the next few days.  Enough to keep mom happy.  But looking around it still feels like you're in that German U Boat in the movie and the ship is sunk.  Guy movies, what do you expect.

So fuck me.

I was a dumb kid when I tried to walk off to adulthood.  A complete fool.

Like Vonnegut going off to World War Two.  What did I know.  "I was a high school jerk."  And I was trying to be Tolstoy, or Dostoevsky, ha ha ha.  Isn't that funny.

I thought I could do it in the restaurant business.  Boy, wasn't that a waste.  

Now I'm taking care of mom.

This is a war.  It's as bad.  Face death, hers or your own.  

In the morning, just before noon I raise the courage to go up the stairs to the kitchen.  My meditation is not complete, I'm feeling tired, I'm feeling pretty down, but I'm going to face the day.  I don't know what to do, but I have my tea.  I was upstairs earlier, around ten in the morning, I took a mug of the chilled tea, went back downstairs, looked through my weather apps to figure out the weather.  At 11:45, mom is sitting out on the front stoop.  I hesitate to engage with her.  

I put some more water on the stove.  The Meals on Wheels friend Nicole, she should arrive soon.

Can't go outside for long, the ragweed.  There's no good place here indoors that encourages yoga.  Ragweed feels exactly like depression.  It hits the same part of your frontal brain, your brow, as far as I can tell.  It makes the body feel dull.  I took a shower last night.  I guess I could get a haircut, maybe that will make me feel better.  

Do I get mom's clothes ready for tomorrow?  I suppose that's one thing I could do.  

Are we going to do something exciting today? Mom asks, from her chair.  YES!  I shout at her.  We're going to do something very exciting today!  She instantly throws the newspaper down on the floor.  Don't shout at me!  You hate women!  She shouts back at me.  I walk out with my mask to the car to get the key to the mailbox.

I feel better for having shouted at her.  Or maybe it was the walk across the parking lot.  Shouting is self-defeating, I know.  But...  

Out in the backyard, after cleaning the trash can liner--some lemon slices fell wet outside of the trash bag--the heat is oppressive.  Heat Advisory warning from the National Weather Service.  I come back in and Nicole, our Monday and Wednesday Meals on Wheels kind visitor, is knocking on the door, and I apologize for not catching her so she didn't have to walk from her pickup truck to the front door, being out back.  "You're good," she says.  "Too hot out!"  "Yes, terrible.  Staying inside today!"  Mom looks up from her chair.  "Take care.  See you next week."  I don't want to hold her up.  "Stay cool."  Smile.  

Mom for some reason wants to put away the two plastic bags, the normal one with the milk cartons and the two trays, one bearing egg salad and coleslaw, the other with one hot dog and beans.  The additional bag, with "cup of soup," and some other things for the pantry.  She's taken them to the kitchen table, going through them like the Golem, after taking them out of the plastic bag.  I stay away from her.  She opens the small bag of Cheez-Its.  "Should I open the potato chips too?"  No, mom.

"Mom, are you hungry?  How about some soup?"  Okay, she says.  She wanders off, back to the living room, to her chair.  I open the can, add some additional stock, heat it on the stove, add some dried thyme, some ginger, a dusting of cayenne.  Mom, soup's ready, I call.  She comes in and sits down.  I'm still working on my lemon water, my dandelion tea, green tea.  Liquids before a meal, good for the blood pressure, the metabolism.  Seated now, I point out to her the paper towel napkin I placed under her silverware set, but she explodes at me.  "You always make me feel like shit!," she yells.  Rises, stomps out, goes out the front door, I hear it shut, and then a minute later comes back in.  "I won't be pushed around," she tells me.  I've lit some incense, frankincense and myrrh, and its calming effect wafts through the room.

After lunch, after a series of missed phone calls, I ask mom, "why don't you call your sister?"  And she agrees.  Okay, progress.  They seem to have a nice chat.

I ask mom to pass the phone to me when she's through.  She stays in her chair, watching me as I speak with my aunt.  She makes a gesture, with her hand in a circle, "come on, come on."  Well, mom is telling me to cut it short...  "You bastard," she says, gets up, leaves the room, then comes back to the hallway to the bathroom.

With the heat indexes of 100 through the Mohawk Valley into the Berkshires, along with the strong thunderstorms forecast, we've decided to put off the trip.

Later on, I'm putting together a little package to put off in the mail to my buddy Bob Girardi, my neighbor back in DC, a couple of buildings away from my old apartment, which I still occupy, even though it's been nine months since I've seen it.  A copy of the keys on a little keychain.  A note, explaining the library books.  The mail, of course.  A letter, the keys, a check for him, his address from a text back in December, written down on a 3 by 5 card.  Then write a check for mom's landline.  Then a check for Pepco, for the power in the old apartment.  I'm doing this and she comes and sits and stares at me, as if to say, "Well, when are you we going?"  Creepy.  Mom, I'm trying to concentrate here, if you don't mind.  "Fine," she says, getting up, "you'll never have to see me ever again."

I can feel the ragweed.  I've been out to the mailbox, but already I feel disoriented and heavy.  I poured out the soapy rinse water from the bottom of the inner shell trash can liner out back.  

Okay, mom.  "Do you want me to come," she asks, all polite and demure again.  "Yes, mom, if you'd like to."  "I'd love to," she says.  

The Post Office, just on the west side, overlooking the river from the high bank, except it's hard to get to the edge to see the view and look down and see the fishermen.  

Okay, the book store.  Mom spent $25 last time on a book she already has, but they said they'd be happy if we need to return it, thank you gentlemen.  And to smooth things over, there's a book she'll be interested in to order through them, another $25, and then mom finds a new paperback about Jane Austin, by the woman from the BBC who takes you on tours of royal history, I think.  

Back south, away from the lake, up fifth, to the Stewart Shop, for a New York Times.  I debate within about getting a pack of Pall Mall unfiltered, but, I hold off.  Thunderclouds stacked high in the distance above the small houses of the town.  

We get back, in, out of the heat.  "What's for supper?"  Later, she calls from her royal chair, so I can hear, "need any help?"   I don't say anything.  Turkey meatloaf, half of a baked potato to reheat in the toaster over, easy enough.  Spinach, a few days past its prime, picking out the slimy leaves.  I have a glass of wine with dinner.

And then afterward, one glass of wine, getting her a dish of ice cream, I rinse off dishes, save doing them for later, and as she goes and sits outside by herself in her chair, I slink off down into the cellar, closing the door behind me, and quickly falling asleep, with some bad dreams, and wake feeling wiped out, the pollen, even worse, and I wore a mask all day.  

How will this ever end...

At night time, when mom has gone to bed, I relent, I feel guilty for my impatience.  I get sentimental.  I sit out on the stoop out back with the cat.  The Perseiad Meteor Showers start tonight, a light rain, droplets, from a passing wind, and later the sky clears.  The cat feels hollow to my touch, in the atomic sense, and he is enjoying that I'm in a state of mind enough to get this, for the same reason, I would gather, that he comes running when I've achieved a certain state in yoga, often in my five minute headstand.  The cat gets that I have adjusted my own atomic structure, let it breathe free, to swirl and do its genie upon tinier whirling genie composition that belongs first and foremost to the universe, the Buddhaverse.

The clouds part, providing a clear view of the sky, and indeed, the Perseiad constellation, and I see first one, then another, then another, whoosh zip across the dark heavens of a hidden moon.  Then two more, in different directions.

I wake up late, the next day.    Nine months have passed, since Election Day, when I packed a suitcase, a courier bag for my papers, my Martin D 28 in its case and drove up to get mom out of the hospital, and nothing has happened.  

She wants to go for a ride.  I get out the turkey, the fresh mozzarella, the fresh basil, a tomato for our brunch today.  She did not cooperate with taking her pill last night until I pleaded with her, saying the pill would interfere with her sleep.  Today I have more luck coaxing her to take the two, chased with her Pepsi.  She sighs.  She sighs.

I try to explain a bit of the news, reading from NPR off my phone.  I resort to getting her laptop out, from the living room and bringing it in to show her her Facebook page feed.  As you'd expect, she fumbles, but I show her the scroll downwards key.  She calls out a name here and there.

I show her another thing, a new page, NPR news, the little piece on NPR, Ken Burns not being diverse enough.

She's grumpy back in her chair now, after I brush my teeth after washing my face upstairs.  She wants to go to Sterling Nature Center, after she sees their Facebook page pictures, but I tell her, Mom, we did that three days ago, it's too hot, there's too much pollen.  You have that new book, mom.

I'm feeling the loss of my professional life, one that I never really was able to get started, that of the ecologist naturalist scientific person as my father's botanist friend from Tufts, Norton Nickerson, descendent of whaling families, who was kind to me and took me to Great Exuma in the Bahamas to crawl through mangrove swamps, the nurseries of the sea, protection against the ravages of the tide.

How I've come to hate her, and yet, there still is love.  But the daytimes are depressingly tedious, I don't want to get up and face her.  I don't mind all the chores, but to face the constant attacks and aggressions and regal bossiness, no wonder Shakespeare wrote those plays as the best depiction of senility and dementia.  "Take me for a ride?"

I ask her to rinse and brush her teeth.  I'll go check on the cat.  Mom, he's right there taking a nap on the back steps, he's fine.  She comes back, negotiating the charging chord for my laptop here before me, cane, Keen's hiking clunkers, and I stand and how her, the two rinses, hot water with salt, mouthwash, then pick a toothbrush from the big pyrex measuring cup, the toothpaste laid out without its top right in front of her. She picks the wooden toothbrush I got from the health food store, and dips it in the little cap of mouthwash.  Mom, there's toothpaste there too, I say, over my shoulder.  Those are rinses.  She figures out the toothpaste, and I nudge her through the rinses, remaining calm, only because I am defeated.  With nowhere else to go.

Water with lemon and ginger.  Dandelion tea.  Green tea with mint.  A grocery list on a 3 by 5, NPR news on the radio failed record player by her chair and the front windows, check the mail.  

Me, the light that failed.

Go upstairs to use the john, so she doesn't try to open the sliding door on me.