Solana sat at the kitchen table, tapping her saucer with a spoon.

She could barely see it anymore, but she remembered

The yellow roses from years of use, and the cup in her hand

Was familiar and comforting.

 

Her son thought she was vain because she didn’t wear her glasses

And fumbled when she reached for things.

He didn’t know the glasses no longer helped. Her vision was fading.

Soon it would be gone.

 

Each day she walked around the house as usual, filled with secrets.

Hiding her oncoming blindness.

Hiding her memory loss behind jokes.

Hiding her grief. Hiding her fear.

Hiding the new pills in her pocket.

 

She didn’t want to burden her family. No.

They could worry later. They were lucky.

Alzheimer’s has a slow clock.

 

Every time her husband went out, she went to the china cabinet

Or the photo album or the rooms upstairs where the kids stay

When they visit. She studied each familiar object,

Committing it to memory. Before her eyes failed.

Before her brain went blank.

 

The disease consumed her waking thoughts.

It never left her mind. It swamped her in grief.

She was going to forget them all. It broke her heart.

 

Soon familiar things, dear names and beloved faces

would blink out one by one. Vacations in France.

Early life in the mountains. Her wedding.

The birth of her children and how they looked sleeping.

Her husband striding down the beach all tan and windblown.

 

Not telling them would be her last gift. Christmas Eve

they would go to midnight mass, open their presents.

Then she would tell them. They would all hug a lot.

She would quietly take the pills that night.

Eventually they would realize it was a kindness.