Not sure why anyone would care to read this but have to share it with someone so there you are. I have inklings of what its like to struggle with doing the simplest things. Like this morning trying to get the battery out of my cell phone. Each time I do it its like the first time. And my mother, locking the door to her room, and unlocking it, and locking it, and unlocking it, just to be sure she remembers how to unlock and lock it. Not obsessive just hanging on to the fragile threads of being able to function on her own in the “real” world. On her phone, the special phone I bought her with names on large buttons, is the name of her last “boyfriend”. I know that six months ago he was very sick with cancer. She does not remember him although once a week for years they went to the movies and out to dinner and met at Starbucks for coffee almost every morning. She doesn’t remember the name of the man with whom she lived for twentyfive years, the man whose ashes are in a bronze box in my storeroom now, whose ashes she did not want to let go of. All those men. All that love given and received. Where does it go. And what does it matter. And am I looking at myself in twenty two years?