Days #210-211 Writing Through COVID-19: Laughing Matters

I called my parents last night. Their voices were sad as they talked about Vern, but we were able to laugh together recounting some of his antics: learning to open the refrigerator door; bee-lining for the asparagus patch to munch on dried stems; barking each night at 5:45 p.m., as if he could read the clock, to tell us he was ready for his supper--with half an egg on top, please. 

My dad said my mom would need to adjust her early-morning routine of waking at five and taking Vern out for a long walk. Of course, she could still go for a walk without Vern, but the purpose is missing.
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This evening I Zoomed with my parents to see their faces and play some Bridge. "How are you?" I asked my dad. "Well, we're missing Vern," he said. But his voice wasn't as sad as yesterday. My mom appeared on the screen smiling, wearing a bright purple blouse with a gold chain. 

When my dad and I opened our game of FunBridge on the shared screen, my mother quipped, "I'm taking early retirement!" as she headed off to bed. 

"Early retirement at age 90?" We all laughed.
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My parents have lost so much of their once-good minds. Their memories are holey, whispy. My dad's vocabulary, once far broader than mine, loses words each day. My mother still has her words, but no longer an anchor holding her steady in the here and now.

Nevertheless, both of my parents still seem to deliver and appreciate a joke. This is incredibly important to me, as their wit has defined their conversational styles, their love of wordplay, their alternating self-deprecation and hyperbolic self-promotion: "Smartest Man In The World."

I need to hear them laugh.
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Tonight my dad kept telling me he couldn't hear me, so I kept talking louder. Finally, I said, "Is  your volume turned up?"

He sheepishly realized he'd turned down the computer volume earlier in the day. When he turned it back up, we had a good laugh.

Enough.
Be well.
Laugh.

Allison

 

Wolf carries the Berryhill laughing genes.