“Sorry I ate your tart”

I love to sit in my guest room. It reminds me of my mom.

She spent 2 1/2 months here during the hottest most humid summer on record. She rarely left this room because that’s where the air conditioning is.

Mom would sit on the bed, multiple fans working overtime with the AC. Or at her puzzle table in a caftan that got increasingly bigger as her own body seemed to melt with the heat.

I’d bring her a lovely lunch and mostly we ate dinner here, too. It was a very tough time for her as she is of hearty cold weather stock. We all thought Merida was a good idea at the time, not knowing El Niño had other plans.

Two years later and back in Canada, my mom doesn’t seem to remember the misery. She talks of the lovely view in the morning out her window, the endless birdsong, the Post-It notes I’d leave her on the fridge.

Gone to yoga. Getting groceries. Back soon to take you to the doc. Don’t go in the pool until I’m home. Don’t eat the apple tart, that’s for Ric. Yours is the lemon one.

She started leaving me notes, too, which sometimes was our only connection.

Mom still sends Ric little emails – “I’m sorry I ate your tart” – and I still take my coffee in the guest room.