the new 86

Alexander and I spend the morning cleaning ...not that my mom would ever say anything. She's not the type to criticize someone else's housekeeping. But I want the apartment to look good. 

Around one, my mom arrives. She's 86 (in a week) but defies expectations for someone that age. Today, for example, she gets up at dawn to drive 70 miles to drop her car off in Providence, then takes a four hour bus ride to Port Authority, then a crosstown cab to my house. All this, while carrying luggage and a big tote. She arrives, has a grilled cheese sandwich that Alexander expertly makes (it's one of his specialties), then leaves to run some errands, "I need to walk a little." 

I remember my two great grandmothers at around the same age; we called them both bubbe. They looked to be about 110, spoke no English ("they were from the old country," though probably had lived in the states for over 50 years), and did nothing but sit in a chair and smile all day. 

Alexander, my mom and I go to dinner at Atlantic Grill. It's a beautiful summer's night and we opt to sit outside.

But the view is not great (Third Avenue) and the ambient noise (cars honking) not conducive to a relaxing conversation. So we get a table inside instead.

The food is predictably excellent. Along with everything else.