|Mom and our dear Friend Samvel from Armenia - Mom in Armenian garb|
Hum, somebody said Marijo, but that lady has white in her hair and MY Marijo is a little girl…. This lady’s coming to my table and she called me mom..... but that just is not right, is it?
Now she’s asking me what we are eating for lunch. It is right there on the table, can she see it or doesn’t she really know? I don’t understand. Maybe she is testing me?
The other lady’s pin says Jane, RN. I am an RN and maybe I am supposed to help instead of sitting here eating…..
The Marijo lady is giving me a box, let me peek. Ohhhh, those round things – they smell so good. I remember something. The girls were little and we always made these. Hum, girls, yes, my daughters. I don’t see them here.
And right here in the dining room is that pretty green thing with the lights, they sparkle and shine. I forgot what they call it. And there is straw and a mommy and daddy and that baby. I REMEMBER Him. He came. HE forgave me. Oh, I am clean and free! I DO remember that.
What, there is another box. CHOCOLATE – it smells wonderful and we made those too at…. um…. Oh what was His name? It was for His birthday.
Who are they talking about, that lady with the white in her hair and the Jane RN?
“She’s eating well and sometimes knows her name?”
I know MY name! I’m, I’m…..No, maybe that’s my sister’s name. I really just wish they’d let me eat chocolate and those cinnamon-y things instead of this noodle chicken stuff. Why does that lady look like me?
Oh, no, I knocked over my cup. That spoon doesn’t work but my fingers do. Oh, now that lady is wiping my hands on a rag. She’s telling me I need to wear a skirt or pants but not both at the same time and that I need to change my pajama top.
Why is she getting my coat and telling me we are going for a ride to buy a sweater? Oh, my brain…
“Hi, you look familiar, do I know you? You look kind of like me but I think you are older.”
Why is she calling me mom? I can’t possibly be that old. She seems like a really nice lady so I guess I can go with her for a ride.
Someone called her Marijo again. I DO have a Marijo, but she is much, much younger than this lady. I remember it was just last month we made those cinnamon-y things, wasn’t it?
I wonder why she has tears in her eyes and is giving me such a big hug? The least I can do is hug her back! Those boxes she handed me smell wonderful!
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