What Forgetting Can Teach Us

My mother is in the advance stages of Alzheimer's.

I try to visit her a few times a week.

If I wait too long, I feel guilty, which makes me delay another day.

But as soon as I'm at her bedside, regret and guilt evaporate.

There is no time for this.

I read poetry to her as she drifts in and out of sleep.

She often nods when I finish a poem. She knows when it is over.

Before she was in the full clutches of Alzheimer's, my mother was full of regret.

She perseverated on what might have, could have, or should have been.

When I'd finally be able to visit, maybe twice a year, she'd spend the first couple of days regretting that I didn't live closer

And she'd blame me for leaving, before I'd even left.

Much of our visit was spend with her being unhappy and me trying to deflect her unhappiness, feeling guilty and uncomfortable.

My mom missed any joy that could have come from our being together because of it.

In my mother's room in the dim afternoon light, there is no past or future.

There is only this moment.

Everyone there says she knows me.

They can tell because of the way she looks at me.

The way she looks at me used to crush me.

The enormity of her soul touching mine was almost too much to bear.

But now, my soul has been bolstered by hers.

When I am with her there is only Now for me, too.

She does not regret or blame.

I cannot waste time on guilt.

There is only the poem I read between us.

It links us, carries us.

We are at peace. Together there is only love.