A mind is a terrible thing to lose

I am ashamed to admit that I thought twice before answering the phone. It was my dear aunt, who doesn’t remember a lick of who’s who and what’s what, and yet we try to communicate.

Tonight she called, “I had quite a time finding your number,” she said. I know. Before my mom, her sister, died, they called each other nearly daily across a span of 1500 miles, and usually wound up re-writing each other’s phone numbers. “I just want to be sure I can find it when I need to call you again.”

She doesn't know who she called, who she is talking to, but I play along. "It's very nice here in Phoenix. The boys are fine, and the grandchildren are growing so fast."

Her husband died of a heart attack 30 years ago, and her only child a couple of decades ago. Her two grandchildren are around, as is her wonderful son-in-law, but that doesn’t mean much today, because her facilities just aren’t up to snuff. It is so painful for me.

She played such an important role in my life. She had grace and elegance, and showered her kin with love and goodies. She grew up poor, but worked oh so hard to overcome. She headed the Headstart Program in Minnesota, and was recognized in the finest circles in town.

When I was a new bride, poor, she took me and the groom to the finest spots and showed us how it was to be regal. She loved my children, and sent them glorious gifts from her travels abroad.

Today, she is still lovely. At 90, her beauty and poise are there. But her mind is fragmented. I ache.

And I know she’s still in there, and she’s trying to get out and remind us how special she was, and why we shouldn’t forget her, and that’s why I’m ashamed of myself.

For I too shall go this path, as will you, and you, and you . . .