My mother is manicmanicmanic. A few weeks ago, when she met me after the training in Livonia, she had barely gotten out of the bed in weeks. We ate at a Coney Island in a forgotten mall in the decaying ring of Detroit suburb. The waitresses were amazed at the bounty of my 15% percent tip when they were used to getting a dollar.
When she got back from the house, her mood flipped. Now my phone constantly rings. My voicemail turns into the scene from Wings of Desire in which the angels share odd anecdotes from their grubby celestial notebooks. The little boy at church yells at his mother and takes communion by himself with two swigs of wine. The people who spent winter in a tent enter their aparment the first time. Take a walk in the sunshine for easter. Say hello to your neighbors because you live on Sesame Street.
When she got back from the house, her mood flipped. Now my phone constantly rings. My voicemail turns into the scene from Wings of Desire in which the angels share odd anecdotes from their grubby celestial notebooks. The little boy at church yells at his mother and takes communion by himself with two swigs of wine. The people who spent winter in a tent enter their aparment the first time. Take a walk in the sunshine for easter. Say hello to your neighbors because you live on Sesame Street.