Mom

The airport is just like I remember it, forgettable.

We're an hour behind schedule, thanks to the airlines, but I don't think anyone can muster up the energy to care.

We walk as far as the security perimeter allows us, and eventually mom shows up looking just like she was at her last visit. We get the bags, and are gone - like this was just another pickup.

We head for dinner, choose a place based on its proximity to my parking spot, and there we start gradually edging closer to the awful reason why we're all together on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday night.

Dad's death is referred to as "the accident," by unspoken agreement, and that is as deep as we go into the subject. Mom is hungry for news of the outside world and I give her my copy of the Times for later.

No power, no phones - we realize she hasn't any idea of how messed up things are down south. We relate the latest horror stories coming out of New Orleans. Tell her about the terrible arial shots of her town. She takes it in stride, only the presence of ice water on the table seems to draw her full attention.

"They give you ice water," she beams.

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