Momma and I sat in her bedroom talking tonight. I couldn’t help but notice she was being extra sweet and using the tone of voice one sometimes reserves for meeting a new friend. As I helped her get ready for bed she eyed me keenly, then said, “I don’t believe I know your name.”
I moved a little closer to my sweet mom and then replied, “My name is Cindie. What is your name?”
“Well, I’m Charlotte. I’ve always been Charlotte,” Momma replied matter of factly as she flashed one of her lovely smiles.
Putting my hand atop hers, I gazed into her brown eyes and proffered, “Pleased to meet you, Charlotte.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, dear.”
I’ve sort of dreaded this day, knowing Alzheimer’s would eventually snatch away my identity from her brain. I imagined that I would be utterly and completely heartbroken. Oddly enough, I wasn’t. For some reason it didn’t sting as much as I thought it would.
Today I wasn’t the daughter, as much as I was a new friend helping another friend.