The shorthand killed me. Mom still had this ancient flip phone where each button had to be pushed approximately one dozen times to reach the desired letter. On more than one occasion, I’d attempted to demonstrate the benefits of the miraculous QWERTY keyboard. It was beyond her. I typed back the following: T’would be an honor and a privilege, good mother, for me to fulfill your Venetian saltcured meat delivery requirements this fine evening. I shall return forthwith and posthaste. E’er your loving son, Victor. JJJ
A second later, she responded: thnx, luv
. . . Thnx, luv. I slid the phone back into my pocket, looked out at the Ling. Not so long ago, Mom would have played along, called me out on my smartass response. Things were different now. . . . . . . “The Flower Duet” came to a heartrending chorus in my ears as the wind continued thrashing my hair. I didn’t particularly like opera; I liked this particular opera. I pictured those two women, the soaring sopranos, absolutely killing it. They weren’t singing; they were flying. Dad once said the reason some people didn’t like opera was because they listened with their brains and not their hearts. He said most people’s
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