For four years, I wrote about every visit I made to Mom. This is from 2/4/2015
Mother was very funny yesterday. We sat at her lunch table and talked about age.
I’m not that old, she declared.
How old are you? I asked.
Oh, about 26.
Do you know how old I am? I responded.
Well, I’ll be nice. 20.
My response—considerably older than that—will not be quoted here.
Well, what does that make me? She asked.
You will be 96 in March.
Oh, that can’t be true. I don’t feel that old.
She was pretty clear on that point.
We compromised. She is 30 and I am 20.
Works for her…works for me.
Here is her painting of a yellow fan. 
