as the disease progressed, my mother grehtened. she’d say. “ to me? ely free htened, expressing anger hing i could to stay connected to her as she lost the ability to engage in the hallmarks of linear life. my mother had al. s on the piano, and she’d place her hand on top of the old upright and sing each note and every ressed, i sa home. noer kno happens, such as my . even though she expressed no interest, i needed her there. on my day, she marched in in time to the minister’s speech as he poured libations. out proudly, “that’s my gal.” i turned to her. “yes, mom, it’s me. ”
home, e her arms, shoulders, and hands. she grabs my arm and cradles it, talking all the i could just tell all my troubles to my mother and kno ht, she holds my hand tight or pats my head, and i’m comforted.
,” they say. perhaps they tell me about loved ones nizable as their brains degenerated, ravaged by atzheimer’s.
those e of my mother is in my very skin, as is her knoe of me. not even alzheimer’s can take that away.
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