Sunday, September 12
After we get her eyes, ears, and teeth all taken care of, she looks me in the eyes.
“Who am I? Who WAS I?"
“You were my mama. “You are my mama. I love you."
“Who was I?"
“Dorothy."
She shakes her head. She won’t say it.
It's Sunday, the day before Mother's 94th birthday. We have invited the family, just like always. She looks around the dining table and sees everyone and smiles. Whoever they are, it feels right to her, having them all around. Jerry and me; Greg, my brother, and Miranda, his daughter, born 21 years ago on Grandma's birthday; Slade and Cord, my two sons, Kaylin, Slade's wife, and Chloe, Cord's daughter.
When we light the candles and sing happy birthday, Dorothy seems happy. This is a very familiar family tradition. It's really hard on Miranda, though. Miranda and Dorothy have shared a birthday cake for the last 20 years.
Dorothy enjoys her birthday party. I don't think she knows who any of us are exactly, but it feels right to have all of us around the table singing happy birthday.
Mother has so many birthday cards. I read several of them, tell her who they were from. "Who? Who's that?"
"You know, Perry and Delores. Perry Owens. He was your Sunday school teacher for years. New Hope Baptist Church? Remember?"
She nods her head. "OK. OK."
"Don and Molly. Don Hamilton. Molly Hamilton. They lived next door to you for forty years. Remember?"
She nods her head. Does she?
We try to remind her of her 90th birthday, the best birthday she ever had, she always said, when every single one of her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren were all in town to celebrate. We took a picture of almost everyone, one by one, as each one sat beside her on the couch during those three days.
No. The memory is not there anymore. I'm really glad we had that birthday party when we did.
No comments:
Post a Comment