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38
The Vine Vase
I see Gran’s mustard yellow cottage at the corner of Grand Street.
The sunny April sky shines in my eyes, blinding me as I walk down
the hill. I almost feel as if Gran does, completely oblivious to
anyone and everything around me. I try to think of ways to help her,
guide her through her dementia.
Every time I visit Gran, her condition is worsening and it’s
tearing me apart. I bring her the same sunset tulips and replace the
old ones with the new in the decorated vine vase. As well as the
flowers, I bring Gran my baby blue photo album and we go through
each of the photos together. I try to give myself hope that maybe
she’ll remember some things, but I’m starting to question it. I can
see her eyes assessing them but the perplexed appearance of her
paper thin face tells me otherwise.
Every time, it’s the same expression. Every time, it’s the same
blank face. Every time, my fear is growing stronger. I know that
Gran will soon be gone and live in a better place. Her vine on the
vase will swirl its way to the end. But even if she doesn’t remember
anything or anyone, I still bring her the sunset tulips and place
them in the vine vase.
The flowers will always be our one-way connection to the
memories that once existed in both of our minds. But now, only
remain with me.
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