for keep's sake

 Four fifths. Don't even try to say that twice.

Four fifths of writing is seeing the movie you've been living, but from the point of view of the players, yours least. And if you haven't been paying acute attention to the details, you're screwed. Unless you're a Creative. 

So, you take all your details and you recall the small moments. Action!

The late afternoon light, the sounds of food frying, the cigarette smoke in the air, the parakeet squawking in a cage on top of the refrigerator, avocado and festooned with magnets. Little plastic alphabet letters that came, went and came back again. She gets up and shuffles the cut up potatoes around in the Wesson on the gas stove. A sous chef at seven, I peeled and sliced those. 

Rosie, digging through her purse for something and coming up with something else. In front of her, a cup of instant coffee with non-dairy creamer and four teaspoons of sugar. The woman was a rail.  My mother.

I cross behind her and open the door between the kitchen and the breezeway to air the place out a little. Buffy comes in and pushes her way under the table looking for dropped scraps, then pushes her dark snout under my mother's elbow and puts her head in her lap, soulful eyes begging.