So here's the thing. Yesterday was my Pop's birthday. He's been trout fishing in heaven for six years now and I miss him terribly some days. I brought my Mother, Flossie, a copy of Agnes yesterday because, I don't know, I finally had the nerve to show it to her and I thought it would be sweet to give it to her on my Pop's b'day. My mother has been wheelchair-bound and living in a smelly nursing home for nearly nine years now. She's 86. Anyhoo, she was thrilled and proud and even shed a tear as I read the part where I mention her in the acknowledgments. She smiled and in a way only Flossie can said, "Better than a poke in the eye."
I set the book on her dresser. "That's nice, Joycie," she said. "I can see it from here." I do believe she was truly proud of me. Flossie will never read Agnes, she can't read too much anymore but that's okay. It was nice to see her hold it, almost like presenting her with another grandchild. Okay, too melodramatic. Anyway, I kissed her cheek. Assured her I would visit again and went home. Three hours later my mother called to tell me Agnes is missing. "I went down to play bingo and when I came back they stole it. I can't find it anywhere. They steal everything around here."
Should I be upset? Or look on the bright side and hope whoever "borrowed" Agnes is reading it and enjoying it and will tell someone else who in turn will tell someone else. Should I believe that this petty thievery could result in Agnes going viral through the nursing home population and beyond? I don't know what to think.
I will bring her another copy and this time I am going to chain it to her dresser, you know, with one of those book leashes they use in libraries on the magazines (if I can find one). My first novel pilfered from an old woman's nursing home room. What does it mean?