Dain Bramage

Today is our father's birthday. Our little family cancelled the weekend trip to Chicago to visit because there were just too many sick people here. We wanted to go, but with my wife away for the weekend already, and Chicago deeply buried in snow I was reluctant to venture along the interstate along and not feeling so hot myself. His church usually has a big celebration for him and we get to be paraded around as the lucky progeny. Our parents are getting old and they will not likely have as many birthdays in their futures as they already have had. This was a big one. He was disappointed when I called, but understanding. Understanding of a son who has worked hard at maintaining a positive relationship.

Now my sister who is Ms POA called our dad this morning. She sang Happy Birthday to him...she sang this as if she had just seen him yesterday and awakened in her bedroom in his home. She sang as if she had not recently called him a liar. She sang it as if she had not tried to insult him publicly in Hotlanta just a bit over a month ago. She sang this as if she has no recollection of the shameful behavior she is so adamantly engaged in. She sang this song as if she were still the fair-haired child that she has believed she always thought she was. I don't understand this, but then I have not ever had enough chutzpah (cojones for some of you) to pull off anything so brazen and shameless. So the simplest answer is that she must have some kind of dain bramage. You know...she simply can't connect the dots inside of her rat poisoned damaged brain. We cry for our mother and worry that the last days will be lost in a fog of keep the mother away from the other siblings so that they become frustrated as hell and do something regrettably stupid and then are not eligible to see their mother. Or some lame something or the other.

Huh...?