11.12

My mother sits in the next room, our family cracked and split over a half dozen rooms as cousins we've never yet met chatter in a foreign language. I'm trying to ignore her, but she keeps calling my phone, trying to get something out of me so she doesn't have to walk over and reveal to her unknown relations that she still needs her child to run small, meaningless errands to the store for small, meaningless groceries. My phone is vibrating again. I lean through the open doorway and yell "Ma, you could stretch and I'd hear it, you're so close. What do you need? Stop calling me!" I can see her thrust her phone away like "who, me?" like now she's the center of attention. But nobody turns to look at either of us; nobody cares as she flushes a hot pink.

It was a dream, I guess, and I'm not fond of my alarm posing as my mother. It's too bad she's not here, so close I can hear her stretch. I should call my mother.