Aunt Gee is rare form today. Alzheimer’s is a no-win son-of-a-bitch disease. Most of the time she thinks I’m my dead brother which turns the visit into an emotional mine field for all concerned. Even the day nurse cringes visibly at our stilted exchanges. But the real challenge is when she recognizes me and tells me all the secrets my brother has recently shared with her, because apparently he visits more faithfully than I do.
“I don’t understand how a military haircut is considered fashionable. Even for a lesbian. My god you look like a cliché.”
“It’s not a crew cut Aunt Gee, it’s a faux hawk.” She’s flapping her thick-veined, thin-skinned hand at me in dismissal. I know not to agitate her further so I wait for her to make the next move.
“You know, when I die, you should use the inheritance and move to Paris. It’s the place to be if you’re to be a true artist. It’d be good for your brother too.”
8 min on the F train, 6.10.14
prompt from Hamlet by William Shakespeare