I mean, she's not in top form, but Momma's recovered sufficiently to remind us that she's still in charge.

My brother stopped by to see her yesterday and the conversation that ensued gave him the opportunity to find out the extent to which she remains confused. It all started when he showed her a picture of his son.

"Do you know who that is?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, who is it?" He said her jaw set and her eyes locked on something just over his shoulder. She was pissed. "That's your grandson, Momma."

"I know that. He's your son."

"Do you know his name?"

"Sam."

"That's right. What about your other grandson?"

"What about him?"

"Well, who is he?"

Again, her jaw set and her eyes locked on something just over his shoulder. "He's Ann's son."

"Momma, I know that, but what's his name?"

She paused, then shrugged her shoulders, announcing that if she couldn't remember, it wasn't important.

"His name is Dylan," my brother offered.

"Yes, Dylan. With the long hair. It's too long. I don't like it."

"Momma, he's a good kid. He's polite. He's an honor roll student. And he's got that artist gene obviously..."

"Well, he needs a haircut."

"Do you want to see him?"

"Of course I do."

"Good, Momma, because Ann and Dylan are driving up to see you this weekend."

"Really?" she said excitedly. "Do you think he'll have his hair cut by then?"

My brother laughed and shook his head while Momma's jaw set and her eyes locked on something just over his shoulder.