Saturday afternoon, January 18. I enter the care home, pull up a chair, and embrace my mother. She is unaware that time has passed since my last visit in late November. This is a gift, and I accept it.
My mother is ninety-six. She has vascular dementia. She’s forgotten much of her past, but I reside in memory.
I was out of town over the holiday break, so we kept in touch over FaceTime. My mother appreciates these conversations. She brushes her short hair — to this day, she’s a natural brunette — applies her signature red lipstick, and readies herself in front of the iPad.
On the screen, she becomes an altered person. Her smile is gentle, her eyes bright. She is open and kind. Complimentary. My mother is unfamiliar in this guise.
I am unnerved, but also grateful. For most of my life, she’s not been tender.
I look forward to our FaceTime calls, even if I do most of the talking. I relate news, recount humorous anecdotes, and...
Ruth Panofsky is a professor of English literature at Toronto Metropolitan University.
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