That's Not Me, Mom

**This essay is the next in a series that deals with the topic of caring for an aging loved one, namely my mother. Be advised that these are intended to deal with a very serious issue, in a lighthearted and humorous way. Feel free to peruse those linked stories for more background or information.**

On a Monday morning in the fall of last year, I took my mother to her neighborhood cannabis dispensary of choice. I forget which combination of discounts it is that makes edibles so affordable on Mondays, but whatever it is, that’s her time to strike. I made a purchase myself this particular morning and just as we were leaving the store she mentioned that she had left something behind or forgot to get her receipt or some such. Whatever it was, I proceeded to the car while she went back into the shop.

It was a chilly autumn day, so I turned on the car to get the heat going again and proceeded to scroll through the emails on my phone. After a minute or so I looked up just in time to shout, “No ma - that’s not me!!!” at the windshield as my mother opened the passenger door of a car parked directly in front of the dispensary, about 50 feet from where I was observing the action.