As She Fades...

I can see her; her smile now slightly confused and her brow tense in concentration. I can even touch her; her skin dry to the touch feeling like there is much than necessary to cover her frail frame. I can hear her; her laugh thinner than I remember. Everything about her physical presence is evident in front of me and yet, in front of my very eyes, she is disappearing as if she's becoming only an mirage of herself. I don't know when it started, really. Was it when she didn't mention to anyone that she was moving across the country, away from the only home she'd ever known, to be with me? Was it when she awoke on Saturdays calling for the children to hurry up for school? Or was it when she drove all the way to Cranbrook, with a hitch hiker in the car, just because she was upset that I didn't invite her to the cottage? Certainly her tale of the drive home, in the dark on curvy roads, not being able to see her dashboard (because she didn't remember to turn on her headlights...) might have been the final straw before the deep descent. She stands before me now, smaller than ever even though she has been putting on weight since she's moved. All that I remember of her, being the first person that I called in good times and bad, her laughter floating through every room she was ever in, her arms always opened wide in embrace just in case you needed a hug, is disappearing before my eyes. She is but a ghost of her former self, fading ever so slightly every day. The confused smile comes from her inability to track the conversation. The tension in her forehead demonstrates her determination to keep up, to keep track, to recall something once easy to recall. Her skin, dry to the touch, because she can no longer remember to put on the much needed moisturizer in this dry climate. Her laugh is thin because she is no longer sure that she should be laughing, no longer confident that she gets the joke. She is but a mere shadow of her former self. She apologizes to me all of the time. So sorry to be a bother, she says as I drive her home after yet another appointment or a dinner with the family. She remembers, of all things, that she never relied on anyone for anything and now she almost completely dependent on her children and the kindness of strangers. It's OK, I say, mostly meaning it. She gave me everything and now, as she fades into a place I'll not be able to reach, it is truly the least I can do for her, my beloved mother.