The other day, I went into McDonald's for breakfast before dawn. It wasn't very busy, but I did have to wait a bit. I was deep in though, and just planted my feet and pulled way back inside myself. The fellow in front of me in line picked up his food turned around, and almost collided with me. I looked up and met his eyes-- he was tall-- and he jumped, startled.
"You're alive!" he said. "I though you were one of those displays!"
Now I know from past experience that I can become almost corpse-still when I want to be, but I have never been mistaken for a cardboard stand-up before.
Dementia has been teaching herself the Tarot through the morning ritual of shuffling the deck, drawing a card, and looking that card up. On Friday, shortly before we left for the funeral, she got out the deck and went through the routine as usual. She drew a card, and then bit her lip as her eyes filled with tears.
I looked at her. "Not the Tower..." She shook her head. "The Ten of Swords?" She nodded and closed her eyes.
The Ten of Swords is the second worse card in the deck, signifying overwhelming loss.