Well, look who’s here. How have you been? Hi, Mom. We’re doing okay. How is it outside? Not bad. Around fifty. Oh, that’s kind of cold. Feels warmer. No wind, lots of sunshine. Forty, you said? That’s pretty cold. Have you had to cut the grass? Low fifties. Just once; it’s been raining a lot. What have you been doing? Nothing new. Putzing around the house. You? Not much. Mostly sleeping. Did it take you long to get here? We live a half-mile away. Oh. You have a house? When did you move? Forty years ago. Oh. How is it outside? Cold?
What have you been doing? I could tell her I’ve been to London, seen the Queen; she’d believe me before forgetting, but I haven’t, so I don’t. Instead, I change the subject. What did you have for lunch? I don’t remember. How is it outside? She could be Santayana’s grandchild, sitting at the small table with familiar strangers, so lost in conversation. Who can blame her, when the past is only a few minutes deep?