“I’m an old lady. I don’t know what Bichon Frisé means! Ask me what “pasta fagioli” or “gabados” means, and I can tell you. I’m Italian. My daughter is a gabados – she has a head of concrete!” My mother, eighty-five years old, afflicted with dementia, aggravated by words, is set into a spin.
“Do you know if my mother and father are still alive?” she asks. My heart gets sucked into the whirlwind with her.
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