Alzheimer’s   Leave a comment

There’s a peculiar tint in the sky tonight, a darkish lavender, thin spread like damson jam between two thick-cut gloom-laden evening clouds. I used to know the name for them once – all the different clouds. I won a prize at school.  A book. Now all I remember is that they are called clouds, the clouds of evening. I turn away from the window, from the clouds and the lavender tint that brings to mind vague recollections of a dress I once had. It matched my eyes, someone said. I don’t recall his name, no more than I recall the name of the book or the name of the clouds.

“Excuse me,” I say politely to the man sitting reading a newspaper at the table. “May I have a pen and paper?” His head is bent low, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Light bounces off the metal frames. Daddy? The word hovers on my lips as I try to place him in my life, his white hair and tired, lined face.  He feels my confusion, rises, catches me gently by the arm and leads me to a seat beside his own, pats my hand. His own hand is warm, capable, clean nails cut square across the top. I have the urge to kiss them.

“What do you want a pen for?” His voice echoes up from the past, tugs at a loose seam and memories spill out. Summer, a picnic, laughter, ham sandwiches with curling edges. A lavender dress. He is my husband.

“To write,” I tell him. “I need to write it all down. Now, whilst I still remember.”

He straightens up and the light glints off his glasses once more and the wet sheen that has gathered beneath. I rise and go to stand once more by the window. The lavender is all gone now. Night has come.

(c) Tara Moore 2009


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: