After another bad MRI, Mom goes to lunch at Luby’s,
orders breaded cod, mac ‘n cheese, fried okra, buttered
roll, cherry pie. She does not counting calories.
Later, she hands me her ski clothes.
“It’s not a loan,” she says. “You can keep them.”
“I’ll bring them back,” I promise.
She smiles, “Don’t bother.”
I shift the conversation to something lighter than snow,
brag that I finally learned to make a turkey.
“I think time is running out for me on that one,” she laughs.
But there are still 12 days until Christmas, Mom,
there is still