Today in Kerrville

"I look like a bug," I say to the cute, young, male clerk at Walmart, who leans against the frame display. "Oh well, they can't be any worse than these," I say, taking them off and putting back on my even bigger dark glasses.

          He nods.

          "You're not supposed to say that!" I cry. "You're supposed to help me decide."

          He shrugs.

          I turn toward the seated, young, female clerk with long, black-hair "I need a woman's help!" I say.  Then I see she's on the phone.

          "Oh, sorry!" I say to her; then to my clerk, "I'll take them!"

          He says, "Are you sure?"

          "Yes. I hate making decisions. They'll be fine."

          We sit. He asks my birth date and types it in, then my first name.

          "Your prescription expired," he says.

          "What! I can't believe this! I thought they're supposed to last a year! I just got my eyes checked three months ago!"

          "This one's from 2011," he says.

          "Oh, then, here. . . " I open my wallet and find the new prescription.

          The customer, who was seated across from the female clerk, but hidden to me by her computer, stands.  Now I see he has long, grey scraggly hair and a short grey-and-white beard. He's a little stooped and approaches shyly.

          "Excuse me for saying," he says, "but you would look good in anything."

          I want to say, You really must need glasses!  but I'm gracious and say, "Oh, you're so sweet," as he turns and leaves.

          To my cute young clerk I say, "I almost said 'I used to look good in nothing' but I stopped myself."

          He chuckles. He may be thinking, Yuck, what a sick old woman. But, maybe not. Maybe he's thinking I bet you did.  

II.

          Today in Kerrvile, I tore a sheet from a little cube tablet in the kitchen. The sheet underneath says, Cube bought 12-15-02 in my handwriting.  I like that I wrote a note to my future self, just like I used to do when I was a kid.

          Someone recently asked me, "Do you write every day," and I said no but then I told her I write in my diary every night, so that's writing.  I also write dialog in my head every day, practicing what I will say when I call my mother. I want to have something bright and cheerful to tell. I don't want to talk about her fragile life, her weakening body, her diminished mind.

          So I call in the afternoon, when the day has had time to bring me a gift that I can share with my mother, even if it's only over the phone.