Mother's Day With Mom

"Hey Mom," I said, standing graveside. "I brought you a bunch of green bananas for Mother's Day. You'd be so proud of me. I'm keeping your memory alive by writing stories about the urgency we feel while aging. I'm sharing them on Facebook. People love 'em."

"That's nice darling," she said, snickering a bit. "But what I'd really like for Mother's Day is the Neiman Marcus catalog."

"What do you want from Neiman's?" I asked.

"A pink Chanel Flap," she said, without hesitation.

"Mom," I argued. "What do you want that for?"

"Please darling," she said, "don't argue with me. The lady next to me has dozens of Chanel handbags. You'd better bring me Bergdorf's catalog, too."

"What is going on down there, Mom?" I asked. "You look stunning. You're wearing your pink St. John suit, your rose petal Gucci scarf and your black tipped Chanel tan flats."

"Tracey, darling," she said, sassily. "A 'classy lady' needs a classy bag."

"Mom," I said. "How did you know that we put 'A Classy Lady' on your gravestone?"

"I read it!" she said.

"No way, Mom." I said. "That's creepy."

"It's only creepy if I don't live up to it, Tracey," she said. "Now go home and bring me both catalogs."

"Can't I just buy you a handbag?" I asked.

"No!" she yelled, impatiently. "I need a few other things."

"What other things?" I said.

"Don't ask," she said, perturbed. "I'm buried next to Coco Chanel."