Mother, remember you’re loved.

(C) Flying Pie

Easter morning.

Such a beautiful day.

Christ is risen,

But I feel disconnected.

I woke to a few texts from Mom—

gibberish:

random letters, numbers, and symbols

I couldn't understand.

I called her the other night.

I knew she was there,

but she didn't answer.

Or maybe she couldn't.

She was probably holding the phone,

desperately trying to answer, but failing.

I called again.

And again.

Still no answer.

She didn't even checked

the missed calls.

She had given up.

How long will it take her

to check her phone again?

A few minutes?

A day or two?

Or more?

Later, she'll blame the Wi-Fi,

or the broken phone,

and say she'll take it to the shop—

but I know she won't.

She knows her phone is fine.

The Wi-Fi too.

Alzheimer's turns simple things,

like answering a call,

into launching a space rocket.

This damn disease is eating her away.

It weakens her short-term memory,

makes her conversations

random, out of context.

My mother—

now a puzzle I can't solve.

Slowly but surely, I'm losing her—

day by day, little by little.

I do not know

how much time is left.

---

O my risen Lord,

Have pity on me as I am a restless soul.

Into your hands, I place my trust.

Bless my mother—so weak, so alone.

Do not let her forget

she is loved and cherished,

I humbly pray,

even when the day comes

when she forgets herself.

Amen.

(C) Flying Pie