As I sit on the rooftop, with my legs dangling in the air, I think of that kind face, warm eyes and her Duchenne smile. My mother.
I remember how we used to go to the central park and chase butterflies. Now, she has aged. She doesn't remember my name anymore. Dementia, they said.
In the nursing home down the street, she is miles away from me. I had a dream last night, I was chasing yellow butterflies with her. She wore a white chrysanthemum in her hair.
Tonight, it feels like a far fetched dream.