When you have nothing to do all day, the staples
become more important. Eating, walking, reading,
sleeping: I'm alone unless someone calls me. My
mom called today and she was already outside so
I went to meet her.

The car was parked in the neighbor's driveway. My
mom was standing with her hands folded across her
chest. She looked tired. There was a warm wind and
the sky was blue. After we hugged she sat down on
the low brick wall of an empty planter.

"What do you feel like doing?" I asked. We didn't
have a plan.

"I don't know," she said. "I have a headache."

I was in a good mood and I took her hand in mine
while she thought. "Pretty little hands," I said.

"Working hands," she said.

"No. They're cute and dainty." I put my arm around
her shoulders. She wore a tunic made of very clean
white cotton, and it reminded me of bed linens.

"Are you cold? Do you want a sweater?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Do you want some berries? I could run in and get
some. There's lots."

"No thanks."

"Do you want an egg?"

"I don't think so."

"We could get a Burmese salad."

"I don't want a Burmese salad." She laughed. "Oh...I
don't know what I want, I can't tell."

We sat on the low brick together. She had her elbows
on her knees, and looked like an insect or a fortune
cookie-- something compact and folded in on itself.
I patted her back in circles. She closed her eyes.

"That feels good."

I pictured her at home with a bowl of popcorn, rinsing
the bowl out, picking up the cat when he jumps onto
the counter and starts licking a cantaloupe.

She lowered her head while I rubbed her neck. Then we
stood up and got into the car. I drove because she had
been driving all day.

She looked especially young in the passenger seat; not
young like I am, but essentially young, like a wise
little girl.

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