I have been thinking about this, trying to be certain how old I was when we met. I am not sure, but I think I may have been 7. There are only two people remaining on the planet who have known me longer: my mom and my sister. There are only two people who with me might remember the vast history that brought us all together, and soon enough there will be only one.
My mother remembers very little of anything but her own childhood these days. It is not intended as a criticism, just a heartfelt knowledge that dementia is stealing all the intervening years away and grabbing the simplest details and blowing them into the wind where they dissipate entirely. She is 84 now and more frail than I anticipated. She was always the smallest among us, with her thin cheeks and fine bones, her funny Canadian vowels peeking out through certain words. She was always little, but also fiercely independent and scheming. Now, she holds my hand when we walk along the street, up stairs, and down stairs. She wants to hug me hello and goodbye every time she sees me - even if it is only a few hours since the last intervention.
She needs a lot of interventions these days - how to use the remote control for the cable television; how to turn the overhead lights on and off in the living room; where she set her three medicines (citalopram, galantamine; and advair); and so many other things that seem so routine it is hard to imagine how anyone could forget them. But then, I am only 58 and memory is still my friend.
Whenever she asks about dear Miss Kelly - I have to remind her that she died this year. And then she follows this with another question, asking if my dad is still alive. And what of Pat? And tell me about Margo? I tell her all are gone now...gone a long time actually. She says, Oh, I suppose I knew that.
And I think it is, in its way, a wise response: "I suppose I knew that."
(I suppose I knew that it would be ridiculous to continue to write these posts to you, Miss Kelly - sporadic and infrequent - but, I promised I would when we were together in the room where you died.)
Norman Mailer said that Pablo Picasso lived his life on the last line...the last line of drawing. I have come to envy that sort of compassionate response to the rigors of this life. To live on the last line, drawn with simplicity - a breath - a motion - a phrase...the last line.
If I could speak to Miss Kelly now, I would tell her that the sky is still blue, all the time, even in death. I would tell her I made the most amazing martini the other night, and have come to love a perfect manhattan with rye. I would tell her that I have a new job and will have to change my bio and update my LinkedIn profile. I would ask her how she's feeling today and how is Mary? I would tell her that life is so precious and so cruel. She would say, "I know, kid" and take a breath. And that might be the last line.
