My father has always been ready, waiting in the car, cursing my mother, no matter where they are going. As soon as they get there, he’s ready to leave, pretty much, then she curses him. They are packed at least a week before they head to Florida for the winter, bags standing by as if they are fleeing us, the town, the snow. I guess in a way they are.
Since their recent return for the summer, I have noticed that this preparedness has gone to new extremes. My dad had a doctor’s appointment the other morning. At noon the day before, his clothes were all laid out. Last Saturday–franks and beans night here in New England–I walked into their apartment and was nearly driven out by the stinging smell of onions. Dad had chopped them up to add to the B&M can he would heat up for dinner. It was 2 in the afternoon.
In the bathroom, the toilet paper rolls are now replaced when there is still a quarter of the roll left. The nearly-finished roll sits unattached atop the full one now on the holder. Same with paper towels, on the kitchen counter. There are a handful of pills along the granite backsplash beside the sink, for tomorrow, I guess, although they seem to be always there.
What are they getting ready for and why do they have to be there so early?