She was still muttering, rummaging through the remainders of her last hallucination when I hollered "BINGO!" to the crowd of 25 or so, and she stopped to admonish me for being so brash. "Some people here take this game very seriously you know" she whispered, chuckling as she looked nervously about the room. "Whoops, my mistake" I told the number caller while I flushed to the bone. I'd made the mistake intentionally, but there was no reason not to add some dramatic color to my ruse. "You're right mom" I admitted; "Let's let the crazy people win. It'll make them feel better." She laughed and looked me square in the eye. "BINGO" she shouted, and then leaned toward me to whisper "yes let's". With a wink and a smile she collected her prize and settled in for a night of heavy competition, aware that her skeleton had been sprung from its heavily guarded closet at last. I despise bingo. I loved my mother. It was a fair trade. The term "The art of compromise" is a fallacy. It's a science.

This page appears in honor of my mother, and all the many things she was.