Reduction

Mom is not mom any longer.
She is and she is not the woman I remember.
And dad is and is not who I remember him to be either.
And I am not the son I was.

Mom tells me to follow her. And I ask her, "why?"
She says to me angrily, "because this is what people do."
And that isn't what she intends to say.
And I am confused. And she is too.
But she is determined to lead me outside of the house.

We walk down the driveway.
She points to the rental car.
"This is our friend's car," she says to me.
And she walks around to the side, bending over to peek into the window.
"This is where these things are. And they better be there, too."
"What are you looking for?"

Their friend is my sister.
And mother is looking for the purse she had in her lap at the kitchen table.

My mother is no longer my mother.
And my father is tired.
And I am not the son I was.

I am a sad and very familiar stranger.