Something inside tells me that I should be writing everything down; Consciously making memories with the intent to keep them, as if this is my last chance to make them. Like how her nose crinkles when she giggles or gets tickled at herself. Like how her shoulders squish up to her ears, and the little excited wave she gives when she comes around the corner and sees me sitting there, as if she forgot I was even there in the first place. Which she very well may have; I told her three separate times that I’d be staying a few extra days, and each time telling her was like the very first time. She’s been forgetting a lot lately. Even still,
“Oh Nana! You’re so much stronger than you were this time last year!”
“Yep, she’s come a long way in the last year”, Papa agreed.
“I set the table for dinner and I did all my walking between the kitchen and the dining room” she said, more so for her own edification than for our knowledge. Maybe she was trying to cover up the wheelchair she was sitting in. She got up and disappeared around the corner, probably to put on her night cream and her other Southern lady potions and serums.
“I’m exhausted” he confessed. “It’s been a hard year and I’m tired.” And with that, he went to bed and left me sitting there in the kitchen, wondering if I falsely imagined her strength and wondering if I’ve got a second person to worry about now.
