I miss the act of writing, so I open to this crisp white page and begin to write.

Dressed for teaching,  I skidded from the sidewalk across the front yard, in order to top up the bird feeder.  The light is changing these days and the birds are doing more chirping. At minus ten, white crystalline snow blew and bit my skin on the earlier dog walk, so I knew that the birds would be hungry.  Little porkers were puffed and satisfied upon my return and the feeder was empty, but for a few short inches of seed at the bottom.  It had been a great day to be a bird.

Still bound by the cardigan and the fancy socks, I plunked down, hoping to meet Mom and Dad for a visit on Skype.  We meet at five each evening.  I look at my parents’ faces and feel grounded and secure.  At a distance, I ache to feel their hugs, but feel gratitude at the technological wonders that somehow pull our heart strings and tie them in such knots that I forget that we are apart.

My mother has Alzheimer’s disease and our conversations do not stay the same.  I watch my mother grow and change each day at five o’clock.  I also watch my father grow and change as her caregiver.  It is a treat to spend this forty five minutes every day in communion with and loving them.  A conversation with my 74 year old mother comes back to me at this moment; for the sake of writing, I will record it here.

“I am forgetting things.”

“Oh, Mom!  I am forgetting things also.”

“No, I really AM forgetting things.”

It is this writing, shared by a friend today, that has me reflecting on any of this…the cold…caring for the weak, cold, afraid…dignity, discovery and resolve.  There is a story here, for all of us.  Caring on Stolen Time: A Nursing Home Diary

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart. Phyllis Theroux

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