My grandmother is forgetting who I am. It is slow, insidious. She is a joyful person, but she breaks down in tears now and then because she cannot remember what she wants to say, or who she wants to say it to. She is angry. She is smart. She deserves better than this.
She comes over to visit, and she drifts, sitting in a rocking chair and staring at the wall. She knows me, my parents and sister and aunt, but no one else. I think to myself that she is still inside her head, knowing exactly what she wants to say but unable to cross the gap between thought and expression. I do not want to believe that parts of her are simply gone.
She likes to dance. If she loses her train of thought, sometimes she will cover the slip by smiling and beginning to dance. I dance with her, because I like to see the spark of recognition in her eyes. This is something she knows. She is good at it. It is not a blank.
We go to Disney World, my parents and sister and me. On our last night there, I look up at the EPCOT geodesic dome and think I will remember this. It is a moment, one of many, but I need to note when they occur so I don’t forget them. Forgetting is bad. It is not something I do. It is not something she did, either, before she got sick.