"May I?" Mom asked impishly. She plucked the stick of butter off the table and smashed/spread it directly onto her toast like she was crushing ants and shoveling a sidewalk at the same time.
"No!" I said.
"But . . . this way . . . I don't waste . . . " she protested.
Open butter sticks in the fridge were always studded with wheat toast crumbs, but this was the first time I'd seen her in action. It took me a while to realize that she meant to save water by not washing a knife.
Two orange tabby brothers followed us home in December. They lived with us for five weeks, snuggling, wrestling, running around like madmen and punching each other in the face, until their owners saw our “found” signs (which had been posted in front of their house for weeks).
Chupa misses them a ton. They shredded furniture, ate Kolinsky brushes and laptop screens, farted intense farts on our laps, pawed wet paintings and shoved my brush around whenever I painted, but they were cute and soft fuzzballs.
Several years ago, Mom and I visited Japan during cherry blossom season. While there, Mom found out that her mom had cancer and was awaiting surgery in the hospital.
That night, Mom lay on the bed in our room at the ryokan. “Emmie, my mom is sick . . . what if I lose her?” she asked.
I tried to think of something kind and comforting to say.“Well, she is 86,” I said.