Well, as long as I’m having fun –
[deep breath: long sentence coming up]
My poor old mother, who threw me out of her beat-up singlewide in Tucson last August screaming, “I DON’T NEED YOU, JOHNNY!!!” (and who reads this blog, incidentally) and called me just before Christmas to say that we should “start over” for the New Year (adding that anyone who would say the things I wrote is “no son” of hers), is apparently still upset over the fact that I’ve been writing monthly checks to my otherwise unemployed brother for looking in on her every day. On her account, of course.
He lives a couple of blocks away. He hasn’t been able to work for years, his health is bad, but he brings her the newspaper and the mail every day and drives her car to buy her groceries — among a host of other chores and aggravations, you may be sure.
He doesn’t have a car. She owns the trailer he’s living in. He gets around with an old golf cart. The guy is empathic and has a heart of gold. (He may be a few other things too, but aren’t we all?) She gives him a little money every once in a while, though at a price. It’s a rotten way to live, but they survive, sort of. Anyway, he deserves a break. Some dignity, at least.
Shortly after she added my name to her checking account, in order that I could manage her finances since she was “dying,” I decided she needed to give my brother a regular check instead of handouts, so I did it for her. (Just another angel of the Lord, that’s me.) This works out fine, even though it isn’t much: he’s happier, has his own cell phone for the first time in his life, and for all I know has tasted all manner of other delights any of us would be blessed to enjoy.
I thought this was all settled, but apparently not: there’s talk of switching banks so I can’t write checks anymore. Except for the fate of my brother, that’s fine with me, of course. Heck, I don’t want to have to drop what I’m doing to to take care of things when she has her leg chewed off by a pack of rabid dingoes.
(Your check’s in the mail, bro’. Better stick a few twenties under the mattress, though.)
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Dear John-
I have read the story of your life for almost two years. I want to gift you with a Rumi poem to help you take flight.
Tammi
GUESS YOU WON’T MIND
by Rumi
Great lions can find peace in a cage.
But we should only do that
as a last
resort.
So those bars I see that restrain your wings,
I guess you won’t mind
if I pry them
open.
Beautiful, Tammi. Thank you.