The Great Plotnik

Saturday, October 25, 2014


My Mom has started asking for her daughter, the one who died at two days old in 1938. In the middle of the night, she wonders where Kenni is. She's been asking for The Chief too, and last night told Lillian she couldn't get into her bed because her mother and Auntie Dora were in it and there was no room for her.

Brother Shmeckl can't face it, he's resolved not to let himself think about it until he has to, but to me it's kind of wonderful. Is this what happens as we taxi towards the end of the runway? Who am I to know what this is like, or what I'll see or won't see, or hear or won't hear, or how the brain and the body prepare themselves for whatever they've got planned?

Or, maybe, this is nothing at all. Or maybe it's everything. The only thing I am sure of is I have no idea and neither do you.


At 6:47 AM, Blogger Karen said...

Wow, that's so interesting. And happy birthday, Plotnik.

At 1:38 PM, Blogger mary ann said...

so poignant

At 5:44 PM, Anonymous Cousin Seattle said...

When I see you in December (You'll be in town for our annual chow/cook-fest, I hope!), I'll have to tell you about Grandma Doris's final hours. Really changed my perspective on the whole "end of the runway" thing.


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