and I believe it is time to write again.
My life took a crazy turn when my hubby's grandmother came to live with us. She is a testy old broad with an attitude and a vocabulary to go with the best of them. The sad part is-- she is spiraling slowly down the road, mentally, and probably won't be returning.
This does, however, provide some regular source of amusement, if one is able to accept the sadness with a grain of salt. On the daily, this happens, but one noted example was when she was complaining to me of colors. The colors everywhere. So I asked, "what colors are they?" hoping to decipher what real-life objects were bothering her out of what color she saw. She responds, "26." I further question, "there are 26 colors?"
"No," she says, emphatically, "26 is the color."
And with that, the conversation was over.
Days like that remind me of why I need to continue writing.
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