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Long ago, I was the fish, meandering currents of knowing and unknowing. Knowing her rhythms: lub-dub, lub-dub, rocking, rest. Knowing her voice. Not yet knowing how much joy and sorrow would pass between us.
Now she’s the fish, being swept along. Knowing she’s Margo. Not knowing our names. Not knowing she’s 94.
She drinks water, sits and thinks, then brings the empty glass to her lips: “Thanks for calling. It was nice to talk to you.”
Later, her gnarled hands glide up and down the piano, remembering things her mind cannot. She stares at “Edelweiss,” and plays “Climb Every Mountain.”
Wish I could see you, in person Becky! I’m sorry Margo has lost so much. Those of us who still remain and remember are VERY forturnate.
Both from “Sound of Music.” But she says she still reads music.
OK, that’s awesomely written.