Joyce

 Writing about Maddie got me thinking of Joyce.  She was the woman who cared for my mother in her final years.  Were they close? Hard to know with my mother, but I think they liked watching Jeopardy and rented movies.

At some point I learned that Joyce had a son in a wheelchair at home.  Gunshot? Accident?  I feel bad now that I never asked more. 

Today, there was a young black man in a wheelchair outside the Panera where I was stopping for coffee.  “What do you need?”  “Just a little breakfast.”  I bought him a muffin and juice.  I think somehow it was about Joyce.

Sometimes another time becomes today.