How far the forgetting

She was happy to see me.

I told her I had driven all the way from Chicago to Georgia to see her. She smiled. Nice of me to come, she acknowledged.

And then I handed her a Christmas present.

She admired the red wrapping paper, the silver bow. And with help she tore the wrapping off the package.

Slippers. They were pretty, she decided, and showed them off to the other elderly residents of the home, who were sitting about the common room, watching television, or not.

She liked them. They were soft; they were blue.

But she did not know me even then. Even when I told her my name and identified myself as her youngest child.

Later, in her room, I pointed to framed photos on the wall. One with my name on it. I told her that was me and said my name. She told me that was her brother.

How far the forgetting has gone. To not know what sixty years ago you had carried in your body and then given birth to.

I had expected that. I hadn’t seen her in two years.  I’d spoken on the phone with her and weekly sent cards.  But had not seen or touched her.

Something of the maternal is still there, however.

A large white teddy bear with a red and green velvet Christmas dress was perched at the end of her bed. She showed it to me. Later picked it up. Cradled it and rocked it. Sang to it. Kissed the bear’s forehead.

But I am most probably mistaken.  What she is remembering is not cradling an infant in her arms. No, she is rocking and cooing to her doll baby. And Geneva, her roommate, who must do everything with her—this is her best friend Rachel from eighty-five years ago.

I slip out while they are still admiring each other’s stuffed animals, holding them on their laps, and stringing words and phrases together that make no sense.