She told him (and me as listener-in) about the ducks that come to her door each day. He asked her their names. Daisy and Donald, she said. It sparked a memory. Was in it a comic? The nephew and neice of Donald Duck, was one called Daisy? It doesn’t matter. I like that she has this connection with something other, something outside. The names are chosen and shared. A belonging is established and reinforced. She is making a home, as best she can from the little that was left. Is she happy there? Perhaps as happy as any of us can be who have lost most of our autonomy. We are to go and see her tomorrow. I never know what she is thinking. She is as hard to read as her mother was. Their emotions are hidden, closed-off, at least to me. I have grown so fond of her. I don’t know if it is mutual. And it doesn’t matter. Not at all. I enjoy what I feel about her. It is a kind of love. But mostly respect.
