Good Friday

San Francisco Bay Area, California

Dear Mago,
Moving closer to you.
Rested as could be after the long journey, I woke in a panic yesterday, convinced that I had missed my flight. Where would I be today but for the goodness and hospitality of Martha? The human body can certainly not be transported alive within a matter of hours from one time zone to another - to where day is night and night is day - without repercussions.

Headed straight through the Caldecott Tunnel, and on out through the hills along Mt. Diablo Boulevard, I note that the hills are much greener and the live oak darker than usual . Recalling a poem that Martha’s brother Mike wrote when we were kids, I think that this winter must have been especially wet and that California poppies must bloom forever:

Golden poppies
spread your apricot kisses
across straw fields
crisp and dry
and we’ll kindle our love
to a blue flaming sky.

All is in bloom - from cherry trees to plum blossoms, tulips and irises, camellias, wisteria, princess trees, rhododendrons, azaleas, birds of paradise, callalillies, fuchsias, nastursiums, marigolds, golden poppies, freesias, monkey flowers, crepe myrtle, and potatoe vines – the skies are blue and the air is balmy. Drove past mother Anne’s home to pick up the mail and a vase for the daffodils. I found her hunched over a big white terry cloth bib in her wheelchair at the convalescent home. Though she took note of me as though I always walk in at meal times, the fragile feel of her bones during our long embrace said something different: "You can’t sit on my lap, dear,” she said. ”I’m doing my best,” I said and proceeded to pull up a chair.

Today will be filled with a meeting with mother Anne’s case manager this morning, then appointments to visit various assisted living and board and care accommodations in the afternoon, and then a visit again with mother Anne in the evening.

Your devoted granddaughter