Without Preamble

I touch her hair, it seems all I can do; it’s silver, soft, and I’m surprised at its silkiness. I don’t remember it being this smooth. She’s asleep, like she is whenever I am there, like she is most of the time, as if this world holds nothing for her and she can just dream beautiful dreams instead.

They tell me, She’s good, she’s doing good, her heart is strong, her kidneys have healed: this is good? Her brain, I think, what about her HER BRAIN? It’s past the point of any recovery, of any healing, and its cruel of her heart to go on so firmly.

In my family, we valued the brain, admired it from afar, 3 children set to worship the idol of higher education without ever earning it, schooled in theology, politics, literature, film, TV, somewhat on our own, but there was always something intellectual going on. And who could ever get by without a book? It was my refuge in a life with 2 much older siblings. While I was learning to walk they were screaming for independence, and as soon as I could read, I read everything I could get my hands on. It didn’t have to be fiction, or even interesting, but stories and poems loomed large as the glittering gems of everything I read. And my mother read too, consumed Christian literature at an unbelievable rate, while Dad read techy things, when required, and I guess I was the spawn of all that reading. And sure, for a brief period, other parts of my body - my legs, for example - were my prize possession, but above all my brain remained the source of all my hubris and all my joys.

And here she is in a home, alone, her brain deteriorating…what does she dream of? Is it childish dreams, or can she remember the happy moments of her life? Is she chatting with God, did she retain all that she learned about Him, or is she just laughing and enjoying the peace of not being present, not having the damned curse of not knowing who is in front of her, or where she is, or why can’t she go home.

So I stroke her hair. It glitters silver, where once and always it glittered gold, but it is still her hair, shiny as a precious metal in my helpless hands. I wish I could take a lock of it because I know before long, she’ll be gone - and all I’ll have is my already-fading memories, moments shining in my mind, briefly, then escaping, as I lose her forever.