*The Next Day*

By the end of the Saturday, we'd sorted through more of the boxes, marking some to keep, some to donate and some to trash. As we worked together in the kitchen, and throughout the main floor, our kitchen, family room, and entry way were riddled with boxes and keepsakes. It was hard to believe I managed to bring all this stuff down from the attic.

Throughout the day, I found myself glancing at my mom, with my glazed and fixated eyes, I observing how she walked, how she moved, catching all the little mannerisms that were so common they'd previously gone unnoticed, like the way she flicked her head to bounce her wavy, chocolate bangs out of her eyes, or the way she bit down on her bottom lip when deep in thought. Or the repeated light clicking, of her self-manicured nails on the table as she studied old drawings, pictures, or documents. I tried to tell myself that my observations were solely curiosity, but deep down I knew I felt that sub-consciously I was studying her, even as I wrestled with whether I should try out the ray gun again and take her for another spin. Just one more time. Maybe just to be a woman out in public. Not for my own indulgence but for the betterment of my mom’s life.