5nd in A Nice Dream On Elm Street

I got bedtime stories when I was a boy. Grandma would tell me about the 3 bears, we’d eventually find the monster that Grover was trying to keep hidden at the end of the book, and I remember a Richard Scarry tale now and then.
Where’d my little golden books go, dickweed.
Then I’d get some stories that weren’t so fun. Stories about her childhood in rural Texas, with a stepmom who was just barely above Cinderella tier.
A man on a white horse riding around her house. A creature looking in the window. And a boy throwing her doll in the canal, and she watched it bob up and down til the aqueduct took it.
She had a fall recently, and has now moreso than ever looked her age to me. 88.
She moved in with us last week, and she seems quieter than before.
Jarrod, my only real friend, is back in jail, going to be homeless upon release, and was told his heart is barely operating at 40% and he may die before or by 40.
Cory is a great work friend but he’s a recovering schizophrenic, needs a lot of time to himself, which is understandable.
I need a lot of time to myself, too, but mostly because time is all I have. Time and memories.
I’m ok. Hope you’re doing ok, too.