My 87-year-old mother wears all of her old clothes, all the time, all of them too big for her now. She always bought good quality garments, and by God, she’s going to wear them. None of them are designed for easy removal, especially when she has an accident.

She wears a towel around her neck, refusing anything bib-like. Or diaper-like either, never anything that would save the towels I place and replace underneath her. Not her old towels that could be mistaken for rags, but her good ones, folded neatly. Definitely I am not to add a waterproof liner. The sound of plastic…! Her lips purse tight as she gazes at my father’s face in her locket, as if to evoke his presence to straighten me out.

Sometimes, I can overrule her authority, but only on small matters. I wonder if, without her noticing, I could add zippers or create openings in her clothes to make it easier for me. But I am not to mention the mess she makes; her clothes are changed simply for our own amusement.

The locket around her neck is her only piece of jewelry. The clasp that keeps it shut is broken. My father—who died forty years ago—keeps his eyes on me as I lift her in and out of her wheelchair.

I could glue the metal heart shut.

But there are so many impulses that I don’t want to follow.

It is good that my father is watching.

He’s all that keeps me straight.

Liz Betz is a retired rancher who loves to write fiction. Her pastime seems to help her days go by, her brain to stay active and sometimes keeps her out of trouble. An overactive imagination is a wonderful thing to harness, but left alone…. Her publication credits are many and varied as she explores the fictional world of mostly somewhat older but not necessarily mature characters.