A Question of Age

For four years, I wrote about every visit I made to Mom.  This is from 2/4/2015

Mother was very funny yesterday.  We sat at her lunch table and talked about age.

I’m not that old, she declared.

How old are you? I asked.

Oh, about 26.

Do you know how old I am? I responded.

Well, I’ll be nice.  20.

My response—considerably older than that—will not be quoted here.

Well, what does that make me? She asked.

You will be 96 in March.

Oh, that can’t be true.  I don’t feel that old. 

She was pretty clear on that point.

We compromised.  She is 30 and I am 20.

Works for her…works for me.

Here is her painting of a yellow fan.