Alzheimer’s

     I walk quickly up the hall towards her; I see her in the distance and I wave, “Hi Mum, hi, how are you?”,  I call out. I walk towards her and she, in a wheelchair, puts her hands up in the air and then brings them down to her face as if to say “Oh my goodness!” and then she declares “You found me! How did you find me? How did you know that I was here? I knew that you would come!” She is incredulous, amazed, blown away even. She clutches my father’s hands and can’t let go; we are something familiar in a world where nothing is really familiar. She praises us and gives us compliments we don’t deserve: how smart, how clever, how amazing even we are, to have found her….

     She gazes adoringly at my father and can hardly take her eyes off him. She holds his hands hungrily and drinks in the sight of him like someone parched. She kisses his hands and asks him how he is; her concern for his health is deep and profound. He basks in it despite his incredible pain. I witness their love of seventy years and take photos for my siblings. We cannot respond to her pleas to go with us; we must distract her and speak of incidentals: the weather, the garden, the birdhouses.

     Before we go, I wheel her to her place at the table for lunch and grab a bib from the hamper to protect her clothes. I push her wheelchair into her spot and kiss her face. My father makes his way slowly to the doorway and waves to her from a distance. I walk away, fighting the urge to turn around and look at her once more. He and I find the path out the door into the sunshine and once again, we drive away, until next time.