Fading Rose
“It’s like a slow collapse of words,” Rose said, looking at the kitchen table.
I worried that Alzheimer’s once again befuddled my friend. Deciding
it best to say nothing, I did not even try puzzling out her intended meaning. It
seemed kinder to simply leave my hands
blanketing hers and give her thoughts a chance to regroup.
“That probably doesn’t make any sense,” she confessed after
pausing, “but that’s how I feel. My thoughts have always seemed clear, a speech
spelled out on notecards. But now those conversational snippets form a
tremulous house of cards. And somebody left a window open so that they scatter
in the wind before I can reorganize them.”
Her rueful chuckle pierced my heart. Rose’s gentle humor and artistic poise were
the first traits to fade when she had a bad day. This, here and now, was about as
good as things got. Mindful of arthritic knuckles, I gave the gentlest squeeze.
My vision blurred. I blinked rapidly hoping she wouldn’t notice and cleared my
throat.
“Your mother once told me that you spoke poetry before most
kids say ‘mama’ or ‘dada’, Rose.”
Seeing her headshake made me regret
bringing up poetry, her greatest love and the first skill she lost to this
thieving disease. Her eyes met mine, though, and twinkled with mirth rather
than pain’s bitter liquid.
“Mama always liked you, Myrna, from the day your family
moved next door. You were ten, weren’t you? And so precocious.”
I grinned unabashedly now. Not only did she recall that time
correctly but her praise brought back fond memories of her twenty-something
self treating me like a little sister.
“You always stood up for me when I got into trouble. Like the countless times I got stuck in your father’s oak tree or when I pushed
that bully Mark in the playground once. He left me alone after that, at least.”
“Oh, child,” she huffed, sliding one hand from beneath mine
to hide a delicate smirk.
We spent the next hour recalling stories from joint family
lore. I left her napping on the window seat overlooking her riotous flower
garden. Only dots of white here and there betrayed mild neglect – invasive bindweed
seeds blown in from somewhere.
Locking her front door behind me, I imagined her grown
children busily tending their own gardens. Their visits were either spent
reminiscing like we enjoyed today or driving to Rose’s numerous medical appointments. With
that thought I vowed to eradicate the pesky little vines over the summer.
Days later I sadly learned that task would be falling to the
realtor Alice’s daughter Maggie, ten years my junior, hired to sell the home
she and her brothers inherited. I think half our town witnessed my eulogy.
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