Yesterday on my way out the bathroom, I paused to look at a picture of dad in the hall. He looks into my eyes, a sweet affectionate smile on his face. I feel no sorrow, only a deep love and a close bond. His declining health over a number of years, and many opportunities to visit with him lent me the necessary time to process the loss emotionally before his last day.
As I looked at dad, another thought hit me almost simultaneously, that it would be much different with Mom. That an end to her current physical energy and vivacious spirit would devastate me.
That was yesterday.
This morning, while still in bed I reached for my tablet on the night stand to check my email messages. More often than not, there is one from mom and yes, there was one from her.
In her email she tells me that she has written a lengthy letter to her sister Juanita about her memory of their brother Hunter who died when he was four years old -- many years before my aunt was born. She goes on to narrate some of those details to me. I know the details already as mom has always enjoyed telling us stories from her childhood and youth.
But I was taken aback when she ended her letter with, "Ok my beloved sister, must stop here. Nga Ieit ia phi kat u Shiap ka duriaw . Deng"
I have gotten used to mom's occasional lapses in memory. Her retelling of an event, the repetition of the day's activity. Surely, there's room for memory lapses without raising alarm. I mean, Mom spends a lot of time writing emails everyday to her children and her sisters that it's inevitable she will repeat herself.
More recently though I've noticed a lack of focus in her emails. In a few emails she has repeated herself in the same email. It caught my attention the first time but I didn't think it was a big deal. Sometimes she is interrupted in her writing by power outages, or a trip to the bathroom, or some other chore that delays her finishing a letter until sometime later.
Today, I am deeply alarmed. For mom to forget by the end of her email that she was writing to me is disturbing.
I want to go to her. I want her to stop cutting up newspapers and thinking of Covid. Instead I want us to cook and clean together, look at old photographs and play Boggle. I want to put my arms around her and hold her for a long time. I want her rooms filled with our chatter; hear our laughter ring out loudly.
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