I had dinner last night with a friend, her partner, and her mother, who lives with them. She's 95, but sharp as a tack. She is pretty adorable, from my point of view, but then I romantisize all my friends' situations who are lucky enough to have parents alive. I was forty when mine died, and they were younger than I am now. One of my kids doesn't even remember them. What I admire even more is my friend's dedication to her mother, coupled with firm boundaries so that she is able to take trips and live her life without feeling guilty when she does. My friend's other sister lives back east, but flies out to visit when my friend is on a long trip. How fair and sensitive she is to the responsibility for their mother.
One of the topics her mother and I discuss is old movies and movie stars. Another is books, as she's as avid a reader as her daughter and me. Her hearing is bad, but I have the kind of voice that carries across an ocean, so we're okay. My grandchildren also can project across an auditorium and need no microphones. We are veritable loud mouths. She likes to hear about the grandkids, and has seen them all at one time or another. Her own are of course way grown up, but devoted to her. It's a lovely and loving situation, and I appreciate the effort and care it takes for everyone involved.
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