Taylor doesn’t talk very much anymore…and when she does, she’ll often say the same things over and over. She’ll fixate on a word or a phrase and wear it out (some have a longer shelf life than others; for as long as my parents can remember, she’s greeted them each morning by saying, ‘Laura stinks!’).
My family has dinner together every Tuesday night; usually, we eat out. A few weeks ago, we met at the McAlister’s Deli near my parents’ house.
People will mention words or ideas in passing, and Taylor will store them away for later (though at the time, you’ll have no indication she’s even listening). The things she picks up on amaze me sometimes. Her mind is an incredible library of thoughts and memories with a faulty processor.
So we ate our sandwiches and soup, and T ate her macaroni and cheese, and we sat and talked for awhile. Later, after the sun sank behind the tree line and the tables around us emptied, my brother mentioned the time. We all stood to leave; Mom took Taylor’s arm and pulled her to her feet.
Right then, Taylor’s entire face lit up, and she said – quite enthusiastically – “Let’s go to Hooters!”
For the record, we didn’t go to Hooters. Mom and Dad took Taylor home. My brother headed back to the house he shares with three roommates, and my husband and I drove home to our dog. But we all had our comic relief for the night – and our every-so-often, unscheduled reminder that somewhere, under the dark veil of infantile Batten disease, the spunk we all love about T still lives.
Normally, Hooters wouldn’t make it onto my blog. It’d be censored on account of its…inappropriateness.
But in this case, we had ourselves a shining example of the old Taylor. And as long as T’s got it, I’ll write about it.