"LITTLE ONE"

Dora sometimes knows who I am. Other times, in her mind at that moment, I am Nina, "little one".

As soon as I clear her dinner plate, I will ask her if she enjoyed it. "Enjoy what?" She cannot tell me what she ate, less than five minutes from her last bite. This woman would blaze through an historical novel about Alexander the Great, all 672 pages, in about a week. Now she is reading catalogues from Staples with the same intense passion.

What really saddens me the most is that she makes up words when she plays Scrabble. For as long as my memory allows, she has held the championship Scrabble title among family and whoever challenged her. Now her words are made to fit where they will score the highest: jtgoxp boxed for a triple word score.

I can no longer tuck her in and lean over to kiss her good night. Dora does not remember why I have pain. “You need a nap.” Other times, while she is sitting on her bed, she tells me, "Go out and find yourself a nice young man. You're a beautiful girl." I remind her that I am almost 60 now, not 16, and anyway, no man would want a woman without breasts.

She does not remember I had breast cancer and had them removed. She is genuinely skeptical until I lift up my top and show her the terrain of my chest: flesh caved in on one side, and piled up like pizza dough on the other. She points to the many scars crisscrossing this mess. "Who did this to you?" She demands, like her daughter had just been mutilated. So be it.

It grieves me that I am slipping away from her, and she from me.

Last night, she hugged me while she was standing in her bedroom, her walker between us. She said, "I love you so much. More than anyone." I looked at her and wondered if she knew who she loves. I longed for her to say my name, to be known while being held. Many times have I heard "I love you so much..." and waited to hear my name. How can you love me if you don't know who I am?

As I shut her door, she called out, "Have a good sleep, little one."