RIGHT NOW
somewhere in a city
The dementia is getting worse. This, she understands. Even so, the woman believes no words will ever suffice.
Some things can’t be forgiven.
He left her mother, abruptly, with no warning, for the woman next door. A bit over three years later, and her mother was dead. Her father said it was “her time”. She knows otherwise.
The woman wheels her father out into the mid April air. Looking straight ahead, he tells her that her mother comes to see him, and has every day for years.
… Not this again …
She clenches her teeth until they hurt, then asks, “does it help?”
“Not really, but we sit, and she’s beautiful as ever.”
Tilting the rear view mirror as she pulls into traffic, the woman catches her reflection, seeing for the first time the deep brown eyes of her mother.
… no words will ever suffice …
The woman who was always her mothers daughter smiles most of the way home.
This piece appeared as the first entry in the CG publication. It is the first installment in the From The Archives collection.