The sun rose, embracing its duty to scorch the high desert between the Humbolt and Trinity Ranges. The leather seats of my dreamed-of ’51 Riley saloon burned as I sat for the short drive to the Senior Center to visit the one who raised me, Hope.
I try to visit her every day and when I can laugh, when the cascading blues part for a period, I am amused to allow her to see me as who she imagines I am. Shifting into third as I enter I-80 at Rye Patch, I wonder if today she will recognize me. Wednesday she knew my name and asked if I finished the book report on Of Mice and Men. I had finished it, before Nixon resigned.
Thursday she was so glad to see “me.” She spoke with great joy of “our” years at Gonzaga. This had happened before so I no longer…
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