Moments to Live

“I think…you’d better visit soon, Nechamie”. There is a small tremor in my grandfather’s voice that had never been there before.

“If you wait much longer, I don’t think Grandma will recognize you any more.”

I had known this was coming, but the words swirl around me like a dark cloud enveloping my heart.

“I’m coming.” I manage. “I’ll book the tickets today.”

One week later, I arrive in New Orleans with my two year old son Menachem. I’m desperately afraid that I’m too late. Afraid that the grandmother who loves me and takes so much pride in my accomplishments, will stare at me in non-recognition and ask, “Who are you? What is your name?

I hold my breath as I greet my grandmother with a crushing hug, my heart beating a little slower as she excitedly greets me and calls me by name. She hasn’t forgotten me. Yet.

How is she doing?” I ask my aunt in an undertone several minutes later. My aunt purses her lips. “Not good.”

I glance over to my grandmother, absorbed in the antics of little Menachem.

“What is the name of your charming baby again? she asks in a stage whisper. “You’ll have to excuse me. My mind doesn’t seem to work so well in the morning.” Her voice trails off. “…or in the evening either.”

I almost burst into tears and fling my arms around her, as she opens the door to what’s most on my mind. Instead I hastily change the subject and ask my grandmother if she would like to go for coffee at the local Starbucks.

Once there, Grandma looks around the tastefully decorated coffee shop she has visited countless times in the past.

“How lovely!” she exclaims. “Couches in a coffee shop! I can’t believe I’ve lived here all these years, and I’ve ever been here before.”

“But Grandma, didn’t we come here the last time I visited?

I immediately regret my words as she looks at me, confusion clouding her smoky blue eyes.

“Of course I’ve never been here,” she says defensively. “I would certainly have remembered it, if I came here before.”

It is several minutes later when she repeats that she’s never seen Starbucks before. The words form in my mind, “of course you have,” but by sheer force I manage not to say it aloud. I smile instead.

Back home, I leave my grandmother to her rest and walk with Menachem in the verdant park bordering my grandparents building. I try to imagine life without memories. I can almost see myself many years in the future. Would I want to be corrected if I was losing my memory, or would I want to be humored?

Menachem’s urgent pointing as he strains against his stroller harness drags me from my thoughts. “Look, doggie,’ he points, face alight with excitement. “Yes, doggie” I repeat mechanically, my mind miles away. His repeated exclamations draw my mind back into the park, from the out reaches of thoughts. I don’t remember what I was thinking about- something about memory, identity, about life’s meaning and the soul, but I lost it.

“Mommy, doggie,” he repeats. I look to where his finger is pointing. It’s the same dog.

For a brief moment I try to see the world through his eyes. I try to deliberately forget that I just saw the same dog two minutes ago and attempt to see it as my son did ; an adorable ball of fur, endlessly playing fetch with his owner, but I don’t succeed in shutting off my memory. I see the ducks eagerly scrambling after the small crumbs of bread being thrown by an elderly gentleman, but somehow can’t separate it from the ducks I used to feed with my mother in Prospect Park.

I find myself wondering if there’s really a way to be present in life and in the moment without relinquishing my hold on my past and future.

My grandfather calls me on my way to the airport. “Thank you for coming,” he says simply.
There is a pause as though he is considering whether to say the next words. They come out in a jumbled rush.

“Grandma asked me when you were coming to visit. She said that I promised her that you were going to come and you didn’t show up.”

His voice broke slightly. “She’s already forgotten the visit.”

“I’ll remember, Grandpa,” I whisper through my tear choked voice. “I’ll remember.”

Note: This story is fictitious

(Much thanks to Uncle Larry for his help in shaping this piece)