Dementia
Your visitors are curious about the sound of the windchimes out your window, coming from your neighbor’s yard. They ask about the sounds from downstairs, where dementia has taken over the old woman’s throat. Her sounds have the inflection of real speech and she says the same thing over and over: Da da da dad alright ok. Da da da dad alright ok.
Mush of a brain, you’ve read. Whenever you sneak a peek when the old lady’s door is open, she is in her wheelchair in front of the TV.
The large home health aide who takes care of her sometimes stands on the stoop with the door open.
“I need to make sure no one thinks I’m hitting her,” she said one day, wearing a purple sweatsuit and talking to you as you ascended the stairs.
You assured her no one would think that. But then, what do you know? If you were walking by and heard the old woman’s screams, perhaps it would sound like a beating.
You become so used to the screaming, you no longer hear it. But when it lessens, you notice. It’s dwindled down: once or twice a day.
You think that perhaps it is coming to an end: the woman will die and her son, who lives in the garden apartment, will sell the place. The son, who gets his old friends to fix what needs fixing cheaply, so that everything that is repaired must be repaired again.
Purpose
These days, you’re an inspiration whore. Case in point: an experience you had thrice. Previously, inspired, you would have jotted it down. Twice is a coincidence, you say when you teach, but three times has a purpose.
The “three” idea is one of your standbys when making art. Taking photographs, the balance of three across the stretch of the old negative is something; three is your only rule.
Is it purposeful that three of the young men you sleep with complain of a racing heart in one week? Is it purposeful that two have pink eye, and now you do too? Yes, it is purposeful: the one gave you pink eye, and you passed it on. You advise two of the three men with heart problems to go to the doctor; the other one, clearly wracked with panic, you advise to come to your bed.
The ones who really like you have something about them that feels molested. Or else they were not held enough. The ones who like you want you to press down on their necks, pull their hair, act like a teacher. But you are exhausted, you try to explain. You know you are a novelty: the last stop on the gravy train. Soon you are getting full-time glasses.
Once your son leaves on your ex’s weekends, you begin your routine: clean, shave, lingerie, clothes. You never go on dates; instead, you invite them to your home. If they don’t smoke pot, you probably have nothing in common. You’ve bought a bong as if going backwards, finally purchasing the goods of a stoner teen with the adult money you make.
You give your son money whenever he asks for it; you like the feeling of providing. The direction for him to check in your wallet, the taking of the bills and change, watching him place the cash in his back pocket—this is purposeful in threes.
You never tell your son what goes on in your house when he’s not there. No matter what you are, you are still a mother.
To read more from this issue, you can purchase the Winter 2023 issue here.
