The Long Route

Nan dabbed a tear from her cheek with a handkerchief and leaned in to my mother.

“Janet, have a look at my eye,” she said, teasing down her watery lower lid with the tip of her finger. “I think I’ve got a weeping rectum.”

This was one of the many things we loved about Nan. The way words fell from her lips. Her malapropisms and misrepeated sayings. So my mother didn’t correct her. Instead she stifled a laugh and advised her to visit her doctor.

This troubled me. Because I could picture the imminent misunderstanding in his office.

Nan repeating her error. Her trusting nature stopping her from questioning his request for her to remove her underwear. But despite a lifelong confidence in medical professionals I could imagine her thinking, as he asked her to bend over and raise her dress, that he seemed to be taking the long route.