THE STRENGTH

“I am going to cough,” I said. “Cough, cough.”

I left Mary, my mother, to experience that by herself and went to get the dish—a lion couchant—with a slew of nuts in it, and I served us wine, and I coughed.

Mary put her hand on the top of her head, as if she could not rightly rest it there.

“Mary, how are you, Mary?” I said. “Now, Mary.”

“Not so good,” she replied. “I’ve just been lying around.”

Then she changed into the shape she pleased—an upright, independent person.

My father, her husband—we were surprised—walked in, buttoning himself to depart. I had thought he was dead. His bad foot had killed him.

My mother and my dead father provide strength for me. They recklessly challenge their competency.

It is senseless to prevent them.