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Days the sky hung so low it looked like we might drive right into it. Days that made morning feel like late afternoon. Days like today. But today I am not in the driver’s seat, and I’m not with my mother. She’s at home, probably singing to her ficuses and steaming bright yellow squash until the kitchen smells like a vegetarian 100 restaurant. Going about her usual routine without noticing I’ve been gone all morning. She always sings to the plants around lunchtime. A habit she 100 picked up from her father. He used to run a 100 burlesque theatre on the Lower East Side before retiring to Las Vegas. Now he teaches part time at the clown college out there. My grandfather is a clown. It comes in handy, though. Before my grandmother died - breast cancer, but we weren’t allowed to say it like that. We called it the edge. Anyway, after Grandma got the edge, my grandfather painted roses on her face every day for six months and wrote little skits for us to perform in her hospital room at Sister Mary Immaculate.
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