memory loss of the Mother
When she lost her memories, my Mother became very anxious. because she thought they were Her, she was always looking for bits and pieces of herself; in her bed room she was sure among her cosmetics, old and dried out, shades of what she used to apply to her face; what she called 'putting on her face', did not reveal a single memory of who she was or what face she used to 'put on'.
I found a lovely and frail woman, looking sadly through a basket of wool, mostly tightly wound loose ends of projects she could not remember choosing , in colour or purpose, no meaning remained to really explain to her who she was, or who she could be now, devoid of color preference, style choice, or even a motivation for stitching it all together.
She kept insisting she must be missing something vital that would bring it all together again into the story she had been sure was her life. I, her daughter, felt I had to tell her, she really wasn't missing much of anything. I looked into her pale, concerned eyes, wondering if she even existed in there without her memories and stories and worries and I am coming to see that she is still the one I know. She is still the signature of light that isn't to be explained or remembered in any way we remember things here on earth.
Who she was and still is, is something felt like a chord or a gentle wind or a thunderstorm; experienced in the moment, not remembered or read about. She is something imagined by the Universe and set free to experience the Universe; to love and imagine herself through the Universe. Now the two of them, delight-filled with dance spin eternity into Being.