or who am I? That’s a philosophical question. My answer is simple. Its what I remember whether true or not. When I stop remembering, I will cease to exist and live on only so long as I am part of other people’s memories. I’ve always aspired to a long life and so perhaps that drives my desire to write.
This pontification is prompted by two things; First, my comment earlier about wanting my attic as a place to write and 2. by the last glimpse I had before I left the memory care unit where I just sung to my Mom.
For the past six years I’ve been acutely aware of patient/residents who ceased to reside in Mom’s unit and their replacements. For my past couple visits there has been a new resident at my Mother’s wing who, I would judge is about my age. She does not seem very verbal but you wouldn’t give her another thought if you saw her sitting in a library.
Today as I passed out through the inner lobby its television was set on World Soccer highlights. Having not bothered to watch any of the matches I was curious to see some of the best moves including, I hoped, the one that won Germany the top prize. Sure enough, I did see it. Very pretty. But what I really noticed was the new woman and I presume her husband, although it could have been a brother, sitting below the set. He was watching the tv while the woman held his arm and wrist and rubbed and stroked them as though its owner was precious to her. Whatever else was gone that precious human connection still flickered.
It was a poignant reminder of something I can take for granted when I visit Mom. I no longer tear up when I sing Wayfarin Stranger to my Mom before I go but it was good for me to see the last grasp of tender memory in this woman. Its a fate that is as certain as death.
