It’s hotly hot here in Connecticut. Perspective seems to melt with the increasing heat index; many become monastic, retreating inside to pray at the alter of air conditioning hoping for relief. It’s sad to think of those who suffer without electronic coolness or some type of hydrating holy, but as usual, below the murky mugginess, a situation develops that changes perspective quicker than a New York minute. My brother calls. He suggests someone should check in on our mother. I try making like he’s dialed the wrong number. He laughs. I cry about my sprained foot; he shows no empathy. I remind him that we have four sisters who mother would love to see. He laughs some more. I insist I need to pack for my bungee jumping trip to Borneo. He hangs up.

Guilt drives me to my mother’s retirement apartment. I’m a reluctant passenger; I won’t wear my seatbelt in protest; but to South Windsor, I go. It’s a thirty-minute drive that should take all of ten minutes. The countryside weeps for me. The oak trees wilt in despair. The maple and ash trees giggle as the remaining elm trees try to waive but are weak with the Dutch elm. The tobacco fields ignore me. Heading northbound, all traffic is going southbound—some diverting east and west. John Mellancamp starts singing Love and Happiness through the radio. His suckiness increases ad nauseam.

Did I mention the hotly hot weather? Well, someone forgot to tell my mother. I swear she had her heat on—a sauna would have cooled me off. Perhaps that’s why she took her time answering the door. I mean, I’m her first born son, I’m the one who actually tries to listen to her when her complaining reaches into my brain stopping anything processed that I might try to think over—why the ID check through the security peephole?

“Ma, it’s me your son.”

“Which one?”

“Chuck.”

“Date of birth please.”

“Ma… it’s freaking hot out here.”

“Hold on.”

My cell phone rings. It’s my mother. “Yes?”

“Are you home?”

“I’m here.”

“Where?”

I knock on her door. I tell her I’m from Walgreens.

“I gotta hang up, my prescription is here.”

She unlocks the door, looks past me towards the parking lot and waives to a friend wearing sunglasses large enough to cover my Corolla’s windshield. “Don’t just stand there, get in here, I don’t want that nosey Toni knowing my business.”

I step inside the darkness, kiss her hello and immediately head to the thermostat. “It’s disgusting in here.”

“I keep it clean, Chris.”

“I’m Chuck, and I’m referring to the heat wave in this place. Did you just turn down the thermostat?”

“Who are you, Geraldo?”

I shake my head; sweat flows down my face. Her Jean Naté smells of my childhood. I hate that smell. “I need a drink of water.”

“Not so loud, you’ll disturb him.”

I look at my mother. She’s 80, diminutive; her hairdresser chopped her hair making her look like an 80’s Arsenio Hall. “Who?” I ask, knowing her husband is in a nursing home—some say it’s dementia—I say it’s a holiday.

“Your father.”

“Bob’s not my father.”

“I know that… don’t get all SEAIOU on your mother.”

“What? Oh… that SEIU, Ma, and I’m retired—remember?”  I open her refrigerator looking for bottled water; I decide on a Diet Coke and a moment to revel in a blast of cold air.

“Don’t drink that… it’s for your father.”

Before I can answer, she takes me by the hand, grabs her walker, cane, purse and rosary beads, leading me to her bedroom. Ten minutes later, I look inside; I see nothing. “Ma?”

“He’s on the bed.”

“How come I don’t see him?”

“He’s a ghost, silly.”

I turn and walk back into her living room singing, “It seems to me, you and me are terrified of nothing. When nothing is the reason, we are here. Oh, nothing at all.”

“Why do you talk nonsense?”

“Heat stroke.”

“That’s not funny, Danny. Let me tell you if that Obama has his way I’ll be the one who’s dead soon. That’s why your father is here. He wants to make sure to see me die—the bastard.”

“Huh?”

“ I’m old. Obama is going to have his death-ray commission terminate me. With all my ailments, he’s going to do it… and charge me for it.”

“Sit down, you aren’t making sense.”

“I haven’t lost it yet, Carlton. Pretty soon, my donut hole is going to disappear, then my Medicare will get a divorce from AARP and the storm troopers will kick down my door. The signs are everywhere.”

“Storm Troopers?”

“Disguised as Census takers.”

“Have you cut back on the meds again?”

“Do you smell that?”

I sniff the air; a hint of raspberry drifts into me. I think I might be hallucinating. “Ma, turn on the air, will you. I’m dying here.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Mr. SEAIU, your union is in bed with Obama. You’re protected.”

When you are losing perspective with my mother, it’s best not to engage her. But I had a suspicion. “Have you bee watching Fox News?” I asked, knowing the last time I visited, she ranted on and on about Obama’s teleprompter and Dick Morris’ genius.”

“You told me cable dropped Fox.”

“It did.”

“Your brother said someone blocked them on my TV.”

I tried not to smile. “Maybe it was Dad.”

“The hell it was,” a forgotten voice called out form her bedroom.

“Dad?”

“Told ya.”

I looked at my mother: she was grinning. I figured bungee jumping in Borneo wasn’t such a stretch after all. “Have some candy.” She takes a package of M&M’s from her walker’s basket.

“I’m diabetic.”

“Come on… a little candy won’t kill you.”

My mother… I do love her.

 Mommmmmmm!