Today we talked, Granny and I.
I told her he was coming to visit.
He'd be here for dinner.
What time she asked.
Then she asked again.
She said she didn't know he was coming.
I snapped at her. I told her- I told you, I'm sorry you don't remember.
I snap at her often, daily, many times daily.
I feel angry at me, fatigued, guilty.
He comes, we have dinner.
We talk, he shares stories from the past.
Toward evenings end Granny nods and agrees when conversation warrants.
I sense her comments driven by obligation, not understanding.
We plan for lunch tomorrow.
The three of us.
He'll pick you up, we'll meet at my office.
Goodnight we say. So nice to see you.
Close the door, prepare for bed.
Judy, you say.
Judy, who was that young man that was here?
Mom, it was Richard.
Don't you remember?
He is your son.
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Oh sweetie. And your sweet mom. I am thinking of you both.
ReplyDeleteOh. Oh. I'm so sorry.
ReplyDeleteWe love you, and I wish we could just fix this for you with some caulk or banana bread, or a glue gun or a trip to the coast.
We're here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.
Thank you for writing this. It is hard to find the right words, but this really moved me. Your mom is lucky to have you.
ReplyDeleteSomeone told me that Alzheimer is the disease of the long goodbyes. A big, big hug.
ReplyDeleteI didn't cry over your lovely Elvis letter, but this one got to me. I've been there, but the incidents like this always surprise anew. Hug your mom for me.
ReplyDelete