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Dementia, the Savior
by B. Diehl “I’m really glad we decided to do this. Look at her! She’s just as she’s always been: loving.” That was all I could say when you, sitting there at the breakfast table in your Mickey Mouse pj’s, considerately offered me a bite of your napkin. “I don’t know if today is the right day” was your granddaughter’s response –– watching you stir your coffee with a peppershaker. “It’s the perfect day, sis. … Come on, Nana,” I said, helping you to your feet and leading you out to the patio. “I know what you need.” As far back as I can remember, that patio has been your spot: a birdwatcher’s heaven. Cardinals bathing in tap water, robins belting out your favorite song, woodpeckers hammering away at that stone-dead pear tree, proving to you that there is life after death: this –– all of this –– has always been the light that protected you, warding off the darkness to a coma of fear. Needless to say, things have changed. But when my sister tapped me on the shoulder, suggesting, for the second time, that it “wasn't the right day,” somehow, your words made more sense to me than hers: “Oh, look at the monkey! Oh! Look [at] that elephant [in] her nest. Do you think she [has] enough pineapples to feed [her] babies?” It will always be a mystery to me –– whether you've simply been a fanatic for the birds, or if you've idolized their strength to rebel against gravity. Either way, Nana, I can assure you of this: there is no longer anything beneath you; there is no longer any need for you to rise. You have no remembrance of your maxed out credit cards or your best friend’s funeral. You have no awareness of the wars or corrupt governments. (Let's face it: sorrow can't get through a knobless, locked door.) Just this morning, I read in the paper that three little girls were found –– naked, bloody, and bruised –– in an abandoned warehouse just a few miles south of here. But I bet you don’t know about that. Just this morning, I read in the paper that the Holy Ghost has been trapped in the trunk of Hitler’s Mercedes-Benz since 1939. But I bet you don’t know about that, either. Look at the monkey, Nana. Look at the elephant. They know that you have pried yourself loose from the death-grip of a cancerous knowing. They know this; they fear this. Can you smell their jealousy? Can you hear their prayers on the nights you still dream in color? Compared to you, Nana, the birds are enslaved. Your jailed mind has made bail. And I couldn't possibly be happier for you. |
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