for a place for gk to die, it glows with the appearance of life. my mom and her sister putting on a show for me with everything they got from the thrift store. deb talking herself up for her finds and my mom dancing with a bright yellow sarong that she bought, of course being the same hue of the bright yellow sweatshirt she happened to be wearing. deb muttering “spaz” under her breath, and musing about what it must have been like to be raised by my mom. all of us girls slumbering in the same room. i know this is all exactly what they were like when they were teens, burgeoning with youth and charisma. i don’t know how it remains, but it remains as they approach 60. deb pranks my mom by planting random unflattering photos of cousins and unknown coworkers in places, like under the covers, or inside the laptop. she is beautiful, self centered, vivacious, and too pretty for her age, just like my mom. her wit is sharper than my mom, her buckets of self-esteem may cause some damage, but for this moment i squeak and squeal. at midnight, deb waves adieu to me like a dramatic cheerleader as she pulls the wheelchaired gk into the recesses of the house. i should not be laughing this much in a hospice setting