Brava

December 2013

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THRIVE MUSE "I WANT YOU TO HAVE THE THINGS YOU REMEMBERED— NOW THAT YOU'VE FORGOTTEN." Dear Mom, Dear Mom, Some days you are quiet, but that's rare. My reading tells me that one day you'll be robbed of your speech, just as you've been robbed of other things. DEAR MOM LETTERS AND WORDS, AS THE SILENT THIEF COMES BY PATRICIA MELKA ILLUSTRATION BY SARAH URESHII 34 BRAVA MAGAZINE | DECEMBER 2013 Most days, when you are speaking, I can translate this strange language. It sounds like English, but the structure is different. Sometimes, you must repeat the same phrases over and over, until something is settled in your mind, and then—you can move on. Sometimes—no—oftentimes, you ask me question upon question that I have no answer for. I spend my days answering questions. Sometimes you have anger or frustration in your voice, when you ask me these things over and over. My response is meant to be benign. I say, "Hmmm, I don't know," or "I suppose that could be true," or "I hadn't thought of it that way." "You're not listening to me!" you'll say. Oh, but I am. But I have no answers to satisfy the questions you're asking. I don't know if Bin and Heller have a 92. I don't know who Bin and Heller are. I don't know if Steve got his meat at the hospital or whether the nuns will be coming for their cake-sleeves. I can't tell you why numbers with "9" in them are more important than other numbers. But, still, I spend my days answering questions because, one day, your voice will stop. your sweater around and around. You are content. And all I can think is, "Once it comes off I have to sew it back on— again." the "Hail Mary" prayer—over and over and over again. It delights you so much you've begun to clap in rhythm. And all I can think is, "Find something else to recite—before I go crazy." deep breath and get a grip. Buttons sewed on, buttons pulled off— prayers and music. You take your joy so much easier than I do. Dear Mom, I love to read out loud to you. Even though you don't understand anything I'm saying, I like to think I'm feeding you language. Every day, I give you food and water. I also want to give you words. I don't want you to stop talking before you stop breathing. Against all odds, I want you to tell me goodbye. But Alzheimer's disease snuck up moment by moment, and there was no time to say goodbye before you were gone. So, every day, I feed you words. Words to sustain you until the end. Don't leave without saying goodbye. Please. Continued on p. 36.

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