Dementia in the Digital Age

From the nicest room in the home

with three large closets and the only private bathroom

she likes to report as an inventory of blessings

every time we talk— and two twin beds

with a space between where she and her husband

reach across to finger-kiss goodnight,

Mom sends photos I already sent her of my last visit,

all day, in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate, no words.

No responses to my questions or comments.

No hearts or smiles or praying hands.

But sometimes, I love you, all caps.

And photos of her decades ago in 1980s prime, one

in a black and red tailored suit dress and 3-inch heels

flanked by fat, balding bosses who flaunted her

like the jewel she was to lure business. Sent twice.

And another, only once, of her white-haired mother

at her side, grandma’s Colorado mountains behind,

Mom’s tiny waist cinched with a belt around

a fitted blue-jean jumpsuit. And this one, thrice:

she and her oldest daughter together,

gorgeous, smiling, always mistaken as sisters.

And this one, at least four times a week:

her mother tucked against her scowling father,

cigarette aloft behind his youngest daughter,

leaning against a white picket fence

with their five grown kids, middle-aged

Mom in black and red stripes as far away

from him as possible. Or five times, this:

sitting around a Cracker Barrel table

maybe ten years ago, her hair still dark and thick,

still donning snug fitting animal print,

with three sisters, their racist husbands

and remaining veteran brother

whom she lovingly reminded of her name

and later recounted the way his wife

rolled her eyes and scolded,

“You’ve already told that story, Wayne!”

And minutes after, this one, four times:

a cropped close-up of her at that same table,

blurry, pixelated, head held proud.

And yesterday, this one, three times:

Mom’s right arm reaching around her oldest,

now-estranged son with two kids on his knee

and her left around her youngest girl—

long curled, who died five years after that,

her hand on my shoulder—and my older sister

and I, on the floor before her with our daughters

in our laps. Mom’s smile huge, satin blouse signature red.

Her house, a nest she bought herself. Behind us,

in a vase she had carefully arranged, burgundy

silk flowers bloomed on long, plastic stems.

Perhaps it was Christmas. Perhaps it always is.