Oh beautiful day: part 1

The sun shines bone warming rays. The air still got that brittle cold from a spring night with clear open skies. Today we go on an expedition, me mum, me dad, and me. But first, what comes before...

Mother
Me mum threw everything out, old clothes, old books, old friends. There are walls around her. Within she is alone. All alone. Nothing but strangers around her, and new things she doesn't always remember buying. New stuff that isn't as good as the old stuff, but the envious and petty people took all that stuff away. She doesn't remember throwing everything out. I've learned not to point that out, because she's a proud woman, and she forgets many things but things like that. She's not crazy, I'm a snotnosed brat that always knows better, is what it is.

So there, I shrug, and frown a bit, and make noncommittal sounds and just let her explain the strange world she lives in, when I'm not around. Everyday I fight silently, to get her past her own walls. Small steps, little sips. I visit every day. When I don't I call. Everyday five minutes or more to break the monologue in her mind with which she builds those walls and mans them with envious neighbors that live in the ceiling and make noise just to spite her.

Father
Me dad's a hoarder. Discounts are his addiction. Five for the price of six makes him buy two packs of something he does not need. The amount of stuff a person can buy in case per chance one day one might need such a handy two-penny piece of plastic crap is amazing. We should go back to his house one of these days to get a few bobs and bits he still needs, and then he can sell the house.

Me dad, like my mother, forgets. Since the brain clot, not a lot gets written down in long term memory. He manages, with little notes. He adapts. He's a good little soldier like that. But what he doesn't remember is: things change. At first it's maddening, having to explain again that the clothes he has in the apartment are all the clothes he has, and no, there is no closet in the old house filled with clothes. Then it becomes maddening, because every time again I have to explain how come all his cameras are gone, all his flashlight, all his clothes, anything of value, and every time again it breaks his heart. And I wonder if he's ever going to remember once we do sell the house?

Events leading up to the expedition
Dad saw a notice for a bookfair in the paper. He's never been to one. He lies, because he thinks it will get him what he wants. In this way parents become like little children. But yes, I'll gladly spend a few hours of those hard to come by free days, to visit this bookfair with him. I'll be having to break his heart about the amount of  books I'm willing to stow away in my car. He might not be able to cope with it when there's too many people around and than he'll want to go home before have laid eyes on a first title. But I'm thinking maybe I can get me mum along, out from behind her walls? I'll sell it as like I don't know if I can cope with dad if he gets funny. I know it makes her feel strong, when she thinks she's in better shape than dad. So of course she will come; she won't tell me it's because she really needs to get out of the house but is too afraid of the world, but says she'll help me with dad. So in the end we all lie in preparation of the great expedition.