Weekend Visitors

She forgets her purse. Always. As she leaves, I call her name. She turns back and laughs as she looks at the purse in my hand. I hand it over. Take care of yourself, I tell her. She says she will. Somehow, I don’t trust her.

Ma visits every weekend. She brings the same gift every time – a red velvet cake from the bakery next to my house. I tell her that I don’t like it. She doesn’t seem to hear that. Or maybe she does, and ignores it. She stays for dinner every Saturday. I insist, I always say. I put her to bed. She’ll wake up early morning on a Sunday, when even the birds are asleep. She says it’s a good time to wake up. She’ll ask me if I would like to eat the cake. I’ll go to the market and get you one, she says. I remind her it’s in the fridge, she brought it yesterday. She checks, twice. As it turns out, she doesn’t trust me either.

I’ll come the next weekend, she says. I tell her I love her. I pick up her bags and help her into the cab. She says bye, and that she loves me. I love you too Ma, I say. She’s distracted by the radio. She probably doesn’t hear my words. Take care of her, I tell her caretaker. She nods and they leave.

Ma comes again the next weekend. She has a red velvet cake in her hand. Oh it’s been so long my baby, she exclaims. She says it feels like years since she saw me. My heart drops every time I hear this. We spend the weekend the same way. She’ll tell me stories that I’ve heard enough times. I still act like I’m hearing them for the first time. It pleases her. She leaves for the hospital again, with her caretaker by her side. I love you Ma, I tell her. There’s always something more interesting than my words. She doesn’t hear them. I turn around and go back home. I always hope that she remembers this weekend.

Dementia is harder to deal with, than I thought.