Her Memories of Me

My mother helped me unpack that day.

That was unusual.

By then, she usually sat and watched while I did things for her.

But that day, she helped.

Together, we hung her clothes in the closet.

We folded things into drawers.

We found a place for her jewelry box.

We put out photographs.

The painting of Texas bluebonnets her mother had gotten for her hung above the dresser.

Her Storyteller, one of the pieces of gourde art she had made herself, was there too.

Pieces of her life.

Pieces of home.

For a while, it was just my mother and me putting things away.

And then we were done.

I began showing her where everything was.

Her clothes.

Her jewelry.

Her photographs.

The things she might need after I left.

I think that was when she began to understand.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Quiet.

Somber.

Later, we sat together on the couch.

I wanted a picture of us before I left, but I couldn't get her to smile.

So I stuck out my tongue.

She stuck out hers.

And I took the picture.

One last silly moment between us.

Shortly afterward, I walked with her back into her bedroom.

Just the two of us.

I wanted a quiet moment with her before we left.

I showed her things one more time.

Then I told her it was getting late.

“Mike and I have to go now.”

She looked at me.

“I’m going with you too.”

“No, Mom. You’re going to stay here with Scott and his family.”

“No.”

She was certain.

“Let me get my purse. I’m gonna come.”

“You can’t, Mom. This is where you’re going to live now.”

"We will visit as often as we can. I will bring the kids."

She started to cry.

I hugged her.

And she wouldn't let go.

I held her for a long while.

When I finally let go, she wouldn't look at me.

She wouldn't talk to me.

She wouldn't answer me.

She was angry.

Angry with me.

I was a little angry with me too.

She sat down on the bed.

I leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“I love you, Mom. We'll see you soon.”

Then I walked out.

My brother and I said a quick goodbye to Scott and got into the truck.

We didn't talk much on the way home.

I sat looking out the window, watching the scenery pass while tears ran down my cheeks.

My brother seemed surprised that I was crying.

I don't think he understood.

For years, I had watched dementia slowly remove people from my mother's world.

People she no longer saw regularly stopped coming up in conversation.

She didn't ask about them.

She didn't talk about them.

Sometimes saying their names seemed to remind her they existed.

I had never told my brothers that.

But I knew.

And now I would no longer be part of her everyday life either.

I would visit.

I would bring my children.

She would see us again.

But as I sat in that truck watching the miles grow between us, I knew.

Little by little…

her memories of me would be leaving too.

You are always welcome here.

🌿WGG