Could anything be more trivial?
Someday soon, the ironed sheets will be gone from the linen cupboard, and I will know that my mother is really gone.
She sick now. She is dying now. But is she still here?
Maybe she’s alive so long as crisply ironed sheets grace the linen cupboard? I’m tempted to guard them with my life and body, throwing myself between thoughtless users and pristine lengths of percale. As if bed linens can define the contours of a human life!
There’s stratification where the line between Mom and not-Mom exists in history, but I’m pretty darn aware that the line is not actually important in the grand scheme of things.
Mom is dying. The sheets are irrelevant except when we sleep on them. And, yet, they seem to signify…