“When my mom looks at me,” Mark said, “and doesn’t know who I am. What do I say?”
Elmer thought about it.
“What does she call you?” he asked.
“My dad’s name,” Mark said. “Joe. She thinks I’m my father. She asked me when I was coming home for pot roast.”
“Were you?” Elmer said.
“What?”
Ezoic
“Coming home,” Elmer said. “For pot roast.”
Ezoic
Mark stared at him.
“Then you say yes,” Elmer said simply. “You say, ‘I’m on my way, Frannie. Keep it warm for me.’ And you go in. And you eat her pot roast. Even if she can’t make it anymore. Even if it’s the cafeteria pot roast at the nursing home and it tastes like a shoe. You sit down at the table and you eat it and you tell her it’s the best pot roast you’ve ever had.”
