Illusions offer an interesting take on life.
Entertainers use them to project a mythical youth and semblance of glamour.
Magicians deceive and delight us with their trickery.
Even my minions get caught up in my hoax—the fast shuffle.
“Look at our mother!” they exclaim. “She’s in her late eighties and still tidies her room and makes her own bed. And every morning she brews her Earl Grey concoction to start the day.”
Well, sort of.
Make my bed, yes. Fling the pillows to attention, whack the shams into crisp and regimental order, then sit, wheezing and puffing, while the minions insist it is close to a miracle.
And who could not plop a tea bag into the cup thoughtfully lined up earlier on the spotless granite counter, with water previously boiled by the minion whilst listening to my pillow whacking, and then squeeze lemon slices already nicely cut into wedges and patiently waiting by the cup to flavour the morning tea?
“And look,” says one minion, “Mother hikes to the mailbox a block away to gather the ads, bills, and magazines.”
What a phantasm! It actually occurs only on a warm sunny day (an oxymoron in the Pacific Northwest) and only with Hugo the walker as an appendage.
“Mother goes shopping with me,” claims another minion.
What a façade! Yes, I pick out the yarn I need for my next project, but someone drives me to the busy mall, unloads and reloads Hugo, stands in the checkout line, and carries the package.
But I love my minions for falling for my deceptions with their rose-coloured glasses.
I adore them for insisting I am not worthless and useless when I clearly am.
And I count my blessings every day to have such love bestowed on me for yet another twenty-four hours.