She smiles as I bring her water. "You okay, Memaw?"
Her answer's always sweet-tempered and the same, "I'm fine."
She doesn't speak much anymore, dementia has taken her thoughts. Seeing her reading takes me back to a small stash of newspapers by the rocking chair in her old house. She'd lick her fingers and thumb through them savoring each word and offering up the best bits for our enjoyment.
Now she wipes her eye and I notice the withered softness of her hands. She used to cook for me with those hands: sourdough bread alongside vegetables from Papaw's garden; molasses cookies sent to my college dorm just when we were running out; white glistening coconut cake presented at Christmas. But now her hands are hard-pressed to do anything on their own.
At times I've wondered why we have to lose our memory as we age or why our bodies stop working as they once did.
This week Memaw's visiting us to give Mom and Dad a breather. Now I'm the one cooking after her; telling her small stories from the news and giving her vegetables from someone else's garden. I bring her cookies and show her my paintings. I dress her and fix her hair. I pat her hands in comfort the way she used to do with mine.
Maybe the love poured into us as children grows so that one day we're free to give it back.
