Still here

Margie was asleep when I arrived this afternoon, and we sat for an hour on her couch as she reassembled herself, daydreaming aloud about Uncle Herman and Aunt Mildred in Amityville in her childhood. Sitting upright, she noticed the photo on her coffee table, one I made of her and her three adult children in 2022. It was the color version of the extra in this blip. For the first time ever, she told me,

“I’m having trouble identifying the people in that photo. Can you tell me who they are?”

I told her, but she couldn’t hold onto it, asked me again in a few minutes, and then again.

It was 82F/28C, and I wasn’t sure she could handle the heat, but she wanted to go out, so we went to the coffee shop just a block away. 

I made the photo as she was looking up at the flowering elderberry. The fragrance was heavy and intoxicating, but Margie couldn’t smell anything. She also thought the coffee was weak and tasteless. I explained that she hasn’t regained her taste and smell since she had Covid in 2021, but she couldn’t remember what Covid was, or that she’d had it. 

As we walked to her place, she said, “I think the heat makes me weak. Does it do that to you?”

I said I do feel the heat, but I’m OK. 

“Not to hurt your feelings, but if we’re being honest, I think you’re getting old. I need to look out for you. Should you be walking alone?”

I laughed and told her I was going to go upstairs with her to be sure she’s settled on the couch before I go. I added, “Margie, you’re actually eighteen years older than I am.”

She gaped at me in horror. “No! Am I? Really? I’m older than you? How old am I?”

Ninety-eight.

“Oh my god!” she whispered. Then she laughed, “No wonder I feel so tired.”