I call my mother every Sunday night. This is increasingly depressing as she is decreasingly coherent with the winding by of years. Every once in a while there's a gem of an anecdote from her housebound life though.
For instance this account of my parents at the breakfast table:
Mother [after watching a small spider crawl up her arm for several minutes, to my father]: "Look! Isn't this spider just perfect?"
Father: "Yes, I know. It fell off your head."
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