Often when I enter Mom’s small apartment, she will tell me that she has been “fiddling about.” The room is filled with photos, keepsakes, pictures she has cut out of magazines, anything with her and my father’s name on it, several stuffed animals and the doll she has had since she was one year of age. “Poor little fellow” she calls it. And every night she “fiddles” – rearranging everything and creating little tableaus with her doll.
As I left her yesterday afternoon, she called out,” Be thankful for everything you have. Be thankful.”