Mum looks at me and points at the cooked porridge.
Now porridge? It’s mine? she asks with a quizzical look.
She stands there for a minute or two, thinking. Then she points at her Webster tablet pack marked Saturday morning.
Mine? she asks
There’s your tea, I point to the tea waiting for her.
Yes. Have your tablets with your tea.
She potters around the table, then returns to her porridge.
Again she looks at me and points to her porridge.
It is mine?
And what is this? she asks, raising a little bowl of cut pears next to her porridge.
Pears. They’re for you too.
This is her routine every day, but she’s confused.
She adds the pears and shows me the empty dish.
To clean it?
I nod. Yes, if you want.
She rinses it and gets distracted and starts drying the other dishes with the damp dish cloth.
I decide not to mention that she shouldn't use the dishcloth for drying the dishes. It’s not the time. Better to ‘choose my battles’.
Again she wanders back to her porridge. She raises the bowl and looks at me.
Jane, to eat?
Over there, on the couch.
No more sugar?
Oh yes - add a teaspoon of sugar. She adds some sugar.
Put here? She points to the condiments cupboard.
She holds her porridge with sugar, pear and banana, and heads to the couch.
Breakfast is prepared