A Star in Her Upturned Palm
As it is, she has lost an amazing amount of ground. I routinely help her complete her thoughts, sentences, and memories. No day passes during which I do not need to remind her of how she and I are related, and of other pertinent details. She forgets things moments after they happen. She declares herself a failure and says she knows she is crazy.
Despite this, there are a great many things she does remember, and remembering them gives her pleasure. If only the pleasure would last. Happiness is rare: it flickers like a storybook star in her upturned palm. She looks at it and smiles. Her smile inscribes itself upon the page. The page becomes a meadow. Then clouds appear. The sky darkens. The book falls from her hand.
If I am to hope anything, or to accomplish anything, it is for her descent to be gentle, less cruel. On any given day, I both succeed and fail in this mission. Good moments are a treasure, and make my efforts seem worthwhile. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I am prolonging her pain and despair. And yet there is no question of guilt, because I know I am doing my best. We are here now, living our strange, sad adventure.
July 16, 2006
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