No one inspired great stories in me though, apart from the gentle wondering. I figured my mind was just too tired from work to grasp on to anyone like...normal.My sleepy mind turned instead to the man I sat by on the plane last week. I’d been weaving a story about him that twisted and turned in my brain from the moment he sat by me. His careful, upper crust accent, his slightly wrinkled business attire, his frequent calls before we even took off, and his preppy looks made it all too easy to. Actually, only one is my blood daughter, Barbara Joanne, the other my step daughter Amy. They bring me once a month for a short visit. It saddens them, knowing they won’t have to do it much longer. I’m eighty three years old now, and reside at an assisted living facility in a small apartment. They bring me my meals and check on me periodically, just in case. It’s nice, but it’s not a home, more like a transition point. It reminds me of the name of that old British sitcom, ‘Waiting For God’. It. More

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