The Sun Also Sets

When Mimsy and I went for our walk tonight, you could tell the season was beginning to change. Sure, it was October 1st, you would expect it by that date, but we’ve had a run of extremely hot days at the end of September. Tonight, though you could believe in autumn. For a few moments, the breeze picked up and the sound of rustling trees and fallen leaves skittering across the sidewalk drowned out the hum of distant cars and the rhythm of persistent nocturnal insects. Not only could you feel the change in the air, but you could also hear it.

We had just finished the quintessential Sunday dinner of pot-roast, potatoes, carrots, and warm bread. When we returned home, I gave Mimsy the option of staying on the front porch with me as I finished my glass of wine, but the lingering smell of roast and activity inside the house was too much for her so I had the porch to myself.

The sun had set without fanfare, but the sky on the western horizon remained a brilliant blue. It silhouetted the trees and houses along Elizabeth Avenue. As its glow slowly faded, I rewound the events of the previous hours. By any measure, it had been a wonderful day. The weather was perfect, we needed the rain, but today I don’t think anyone was willing to trade the weather we had for a rainy day. My grandson had spent the night before with us and stayed through most of the day. After I took him home, I stopped by to see my mother at the skilled nursing facility where she lives.

When I tell someone that my mother will be 102 in a few months, the usual response is, “Oh that’s wonderful.”

I nod in agreement, but inside I’m thinking, “No it’s not wonderful.”

It’s not that I want to lose my mother, but her quality of life has deteriorated so badly, and Alzheimer’s has robbed her of most her memories, that I wish for her the peace she seeks.

As I talk to her, I search for events and places that she can recall. It’s as if a computer virus is slowly wiping her mind, starting with the most recent memories, and proceeding relentlessly backwards. I speak of a town where she lived as a young girl, and for a moment her eyes will light up and she says, “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

After telling her multiple times, it bothers me slightly that she doesn’t know who I am. I console myself with the knowledge that she is grateful for any visitor. But what crushes me is that she doesn’t remember my dad, her husband, at all.

They were married for 78 years and were inseparable. They set the standard for me of what a married couple should be, always faithful, always loving, and now she doesn’t remember him.

This is when I question God.

I search for answers, for knowledge … is there something I should be learning here?

No answers are forthcoming, so I resolve myself to do this:
I can’t bring back my mother’s memories, but I can honor them. I can try to remember everything my parents gave me. Not the material things but the values, the principles, the love that was modeled before me every day. I can do my best to pass down the memories to my children and grandchildren of the artist and pragmatic businessman who had seventy-eight wonderful years together.

This I can do.

Poppy