According to The Grammy

I haven’t mentioned my mother, The Grammy, for a while. She still resides at the aptly-named Queen Anne Nursing Home, tumbling slowly but inexorably into the abyss that is Alzheimer’s. She still recognizes me and credits me with visiting far more frequently than I do. “Paul was here yesterday,” she’ll tell my saintly sister, “and he always brings me something.”

Well, I was there yesterday, and I did bring her something--shrimp cocktail. I arrived just in time to set aside her hospital tray and substitute her favorite pink crustacean. She popped the first one in her mouth whole, so I had to remind her about the tailfin and the cocktail sauce.

Our conversation then took its predictable course. She wants to know about her cat Spunky, and if Spunky is still getting along with Romeo (the bulldog next door). I tell her stories about the two of them sniffing noses through the fence, and how Spunky likes to sit in the sunny bay window and watch Romeo as Tom, his owner, takes him for a walk. Spunky has, of course, been dead for ten years

On this visit I told her that I have a new woman in my life, and began to fill in some of the details.

“Oh, she’s been married before?” she interrupted with a modicum of alarm.

“Mum, so have I. Most people have been by our age.”

“Well, your brother never got married. He’s still single.”

My brother has been married to a lovely woman for more than 25 years. They have a son, Gordon. “My brother John?” I asked. “John is single?”

“Yes. John never got married.”

“Then where did Gordon come from?”

She looked at me slyly. “That rascal,” she said.