This week I helped Mom write a Get Well letter to an old friend. I knew we were in trouble when the first words out of her mouth were, "I don't know what to say."
"How about 'I'm sorry to hear about your hip. I hope you're feeling better'," I said.
"OK," she looked at me hopefully. "Now what?"
"Ask her a question," I suggested.
"What is your favorite meal? My dad's favorite meal was pancakes. He always wanted pancakes when he came in from the barn," she offered.
I dutifully wrote this down in the card and then waited. She looked at me and said nothing. This was like pulling teeth. "So how about telling her what Dad's favorite food was?," I suggested again.
"Huh, whose food?", she countered.
"Dad's favorite food."
"Whose dad," she asked.
"MY dad," I said.
"Whose your dad?" she queried.
"Your husband, Bill!" I shouted. "For Pete's sakes, Mom, who else would it be?"
"What time is it," she asked petulantly. "I think I've written a letter long enough."
I couldn't have agreed more.
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