Sufficient time has passed. Sufficient smoke has cleared. Sufficient dust has settled.
The story can be told.
As it happened I took that fateful telephone call from Susan on an early November Wednesday in the midst of helping Wax put new “mud” on the walls of the living room in the old farmhouse. I had come back from Mexico to move my mother from an assisted living facility to a full blown care facility. She had begun to fall repeatedly. I had accomplished that while living in the interim in the farmhouse amid the 200 acres of Iowa farm land where I grew up. I was still sending my monthly rent check to Mexico for my little loft apartment there under the spell of the delusion that I was not punching the tar baby here, slowly but relentlessly becoming stuck although not entirely unhappily so.