The Boss was in the kitchen with my mother. I was sitting with The Partner at the dining room table when we overheard a plaintive, pipsqueaked "what's that?"
"That's medecine to help me lose weight," nana said.
Though a wall stood between us, I had no trouble picturing my mother lifting a capsule from the "Sunday" compartment of her pill organizer while my daughter looked on with big blue eyes that see everything and forget nothing.
I recalled my mother's mention of the Hoodia supplement earlier in her visit. I'd raised my eyebrows just short of an eye roll, a familiar facial tic that my mother dismissed with the assurance that her doctor had told her it was safe. The finality of her statement precluded conversation.
In the kitchen with The Boss, it seemed nana had re-opened the issue for discussion. "Do you think I'm too big?" she asked The Boss.
"You don't think I should be skinny like your mommy?"
"No." The Boss was matter of fact. She wasn't wise; she wasn't trite. Her voice trilled with the naturalness of an I Love You. "You should be just like you are," she said.