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The Parcel, the Ceiling, My Mum and Nora Ephron
Looking at my phone’s screen, you’d say my mum is crying. Teary eyes slanted on the side, red cheeks and one hand covering her mouth. But Mum, she’s laughing. Some people you can never tell if they’re sobbing or having a blast. The phone in one hand, her shoulder jerking up and down, and the video call gets all shaky and lagged. I tell her that it’s giving me seasickness and I fake retching. She keeps laughing and lays the phone on the table to blow her nose. Then the only thing I can see is the kitchen ceiling.
What’s cracking up is what happened this morning. The postman and the parcel he didn’t want to deliver.
Before lunchtime, standing by the window Mum sees the postman stopping by her front door. He fishes a small package out of his bag, rolls his eyes and starts walking away. Mum thrusts the window open and from behind the mask on her mouth, she shouts, “Oi.” And the postman slaps one hand on his bag, the way you do walking in the tube at night waiting for anyone to turn into a mugger. He looks around without seeing anyone. With no lips, Mum says, “Up here, kid.” Her tongue slapping on the mask and you have to interpret her muffled words. Like a surgeon who can’t find an operating table.
These days people have no lips. With a mask on someone’s face you have to guess their feelings from the shape of their…