Memory is a strange thing. Some ideas stick with the tenacity of superglue, others float away like dandelion fluff.Nearly every day my mother inquires if my younger son is “still interested in music,” and then she asks, “What is your older boy’s name?”
She cannot remember my brother’s profession, although he has been a Los Angeles County Sheriff for decades. One day, she asked me to write sheriff on her tablet, so she could recall his job when I’m not visiting. Sheriff is a word I have trouble spelling. Are there two Rs, two Fs, or both? Is there just one I, and, if so, where does it go?
“How do you spell sheriff?” I asked.
“S-H-E-R-I-F-F,” she said.
2 comments:
Ann, what a beautiful photo. So much of your mother shines through, especially in her eyes.
It is a beautiful photo. Interesting how even though her memory has holes, her intelligence is still so very present in her face. She seems like a really special lady. :o)
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