If you see me, send me her way

I hear my name called out harsh and desperate through a thick mist of bluish black, a slash tearing straight through the middle of my foggy sleep.

Slowly, the thought takes form. She's calling me. Suddenly, I know where I am and who that was.

Flying down the stairs, I'm coming Mom.

Are you okay? What can I get you?

She's trying to get out of her bed, You can get Alison. She's upstairs. I'm ready to go home now.

There is no panic, she recognizes me as someone she knows, just not as her daughter.

Mom, you are home. This is your home.

She looks up at me and shakes her head. You keep saying that, but it's not. This is not my house, this is not my bed. Please get Alison and tell her I'm ready to leave now.

I sit beside her on the bed, point out familiar things, show her the sweaters in her dresser, the painting she painted, hanging on the wall beside her bed. She eyes them with recognition.

Then she shakes her head again, says, I don't know how you got these things here but this is not my home. If you won't call Alison, I'll call a taxi to take me home.

She starts to cry, tells me how sad she is, asks me again to please get Alison. I tell her she needs to get some rest, that Alison will be here in the morning. She rolls on her side, her back to me, falls back asleep with tears in her eyes. I sit with her while she waits for me.

When I imagined it, when I bothered to think about it, I pictured dementia as something in total. I didn't realize the gaps, the recognition of the wallpaper but not the wall, the face but not the daughter.