Sunday, half past two, again

It's Sunday. You said two till four, and it's two, because you said it, and saying it made it a fact instead of a hope. There's no fizz in the car. The drive is a drive.

You fix the television, which is broken in a new way. You look in the fridge. She tells you the thing about the neighbour and you listen, because there's nothing after four that you're pretending isn't there, and the afternoon is just an afternoon with your mother in it, which is what it was always supposed to be. At half past three you don't look at the cooker, because four is already decided. At four you say, I'm off now, Mum, I'll ring Wednesday. She says, oh, are you going. You say, I am, and you kiss her, and you go.

On the drive home your shoulders come down. You notice, and nothing follows it. The visit ended and it's over and it was good. Wednesday you'll ring. Thursday is yours. Your brother has the appointment on the fourteenth, and if he doesn't do it you'll know something, and the something will be about him. On Tuesdays a woman called Pat does the shower and your mother has decided she likes her.

None of this is caring less. It's the same two hours. What's gone is the debt collector, who was never keeping the account, and the penance, which was never being accepted, and the standard, which was never going to be met. What's left is you and her and a Sunday afternoon, for as many of them as there are.

One action. Before the next visit, write down the amount. The day, the start, the end, the call, the jobs. Then say it to her, warmly, at the start of the visit. Then, at the end, go.