When I’m Ninety-Two

My mother loves Ricola wild berry flavor cough drops. She eats them constantly and rather than dropping the wrappers into her pocket or finding a waste basket, she plops them wherever she happens to be. 

While moving my parents from assisted living into our house, we pulled the huge brass bed away from the wall and discovered the mother lode: There were hundreds – literally hundreds – of Ricola wrappers piled in drifts in the narrow space between the bed and the wall.  Shocked, I called my mom. As she navigated around the half-filled packing boxes I pointed to the the tumble-down stack of tiny waxed papers.  “Why don’t you toss these in the waste basket?” I asked.

My mother’s brown eyes grew indignant. She drew herself up and huffed, “Those aren’t mine.”

“You’re the one who sleeps here in this bed,” I pointed out. 

Narrowing her gaze she stated, “This is an apartment. Someone lived here before me you know” and with a flourish she strode from the room. If she’d been a cat, she’d’ve swished her tail.

I hope I am that sassy when I reach her age. 

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