An apple. A table.
An apple. A table. A penny.
Only a few moments ago - less than a minute - my mother was asked to remember those three items by the nurse.
I can see her rustling through her memories.
"Hmmm." It's not there. "A dog?"
My heart sinks.
And it sinks again, when she can't tell the nurse the date of New Years Day.
"I've never really cared much about New Years," she said.
It's true. I don't think our family ever went out on New Years.
But we did have a tradition.
Someone, usually my dad, would go outside and knock on the door.
We'd let him in, and that would symbolise letting in the New Year.
I don't know if that's a thing, anywhere else.
But is was our thing.
What I would give to be able to open the door and see my father there, now.
My mother has a magazine by her chair.
It's a trashy gossip mag.
Every fifteen minutes it grabs her attention.
Every fifteen minute, it's news. Hot off the press
Fresh as a violet sunrise.
I"m doing my best not to let it frustrate me.
Or sadden me.
Because she does not seem sad.
My first realisation. Is.
My reality is not what matters.
It's not about what I have lost.
How I feel.
Because my mother can't understand those feelings.
But I can understand hers.
So we will speak her language. Live her reality.
Some of it is not real. But I tend to think reality is a subjective concept, anyway.
So that will be my objective these next nine days.
To live as she does. Moment to moment.
To live as she does. Moment to moment. And to make each moment, as special as I can.
This is part of a series of pieces. I. Nine days https://commaful.com/play/s0me0ne/nine-days/ 2. Day one of nine https://commaful.com/play/s0me0ne/day-one-of-nine/ 3. Day two of nine https://commaful.com/play/s0me0ne/day-two-of-nine/ Love your mothers!