—an excerpt—
You are an artist. Your works line my walls and lean against my mirrors, depicting a book resting on a table, a basket of plums, and sweet-pea tendrils winding around a hidden gate, twisting and tangling. Still life. Staged on the walnut dining table in your beloved Alberta lakeside cabin, then painted.
You often dropped in for coffee when my children were young. You sipped cappuccino from a wide, flowery mug, sharing family gossip and stories. I sat across from you, usually nursing a baby, listening. I wasn’t a coffee drinker yet, but I kept your favourite kind in my pantry and grew to love the rich aroma of the beans as they percolated. The smell alone conjures the warmth of your laugh.
When you came by and noticed the dandelions taking over my lawn, you never judged me; you knew I was a busy young mother. You only helped. Without a word, you’d kneel to pull the weeds with the same tenderness you used to lift your grandchildren onto your lap to sing silly songs and read stories.
Every fall, on the girls’ first day of school, you’d call, anxious to learn who their teachers were and whether their closest friends were in the same class.
Over the years, life grew messier. So did your paintings. Deliberate strokes gave way to squiggly splotches. When you stopped by, you’d stare into your empty ceramic mug and ask, “Do I get coffee today or not?” Your eyes widened in confusion when I told you I’d just watched you drink it. You told stories like a stereo stuck on repeat. When you asked questions I’d already answered, I rolled my eyes and told myself you were inattentive.
By the time my children reached high school, the calls had stopped. September rolled around again, and you didn't ask about homerooms or new friendships. You stopped driving and barely left the house; you’d lost the confidence you once had to find your way. You were withdrawing, folding in on yourself like the broken umbrella in your closet you wouldn’t throw away.
After your diagnosis, you said that if you forgot your family, you’d shut the door on life.
