You are a child of five years, reverting back to 1924. Your hair white with age, the same style as when your father cut it, as you have shown me in old photographs.
Your sense of wonder is that of your youth, curious about every written word and repetitive verbiage you hear. But not just curious once, it’s day in and day out and sometimes challenges my patience. You are a child coloring outside the lines, because you’ve forgotten how or why to stay in them.
It breaks my heart to watch you on this slippery slope, down and away, while dementia feeds off of you. I am reminded daily that I’m losing the wise woman I once connected with, the writer who wrote so elegantly in the long lost art of cursive, and the master gardener whose craft has long left her.
Though it is difficult at times, I’m very thankful I get to spend these delicate moments with you, laughing, loving, learning, and caring.