Every few weeks, she'd call me, as I was shaking the cobwebs from my brain, over my first cup of coffee at work. By the sound of her voice, she could be anywhere from 40 to 80 - it was a raspy, "lived-in" voice, with a distinct Deep South flavor. Always politely asking the same two questions:

"Could you tell me what time it is?"

No problem; I would tell her. But second:

"Could you tell me what the date is?"

Alzheimer's? Or a world-class binge. I'll never know.

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