My grandmother passed away last week, I wrote this story while thinking of her.
She watches me from her place in the mirror, her place of family and children; her place of memories. She smiles when those people come to visit, knowing who they are, remembering their lives, and the life I shared with them. I sit, wrapped in warm fog, as they introduce themselves as my family and sit and tell me about their day. Afterwards, the nurses remark on how lovely the children are, these children I no longer know.
Sometimes I can nearly grasp a word: my birthplace, my age, my husband’s name. She dangles the memory in front of me, mocking me and the life I led, not allowing me any recall.
She has taken my thoughts and memories from me, my life. And I can see in the eyes of these strangers who visit that she’s taken something from them too.