"Lately, I find myself weeping in my bed when the night sky is at its blackest and my husband, Geoff, is dead asleep on his side, his silhouette a distant mountain range. I press my face into my damp pillow to mute the occasional, plaintive chirp. I've never been much of a crier, so these late-night keening sessions make no sense."
"My mother isn't missing or gone. She lives a short 20-minute drive away in an assisted living facility. When I visit, she looks like herself, shorter than me, hair dyed brown and styled in pert curls, with a smile people say looks like mine. When she speaks, her word choices, her intonations and the way she moves her hands are all her,"
"For decades, my mother had been single and independent, living on her own, volunteering and singing in a local chorale. At 78, she was in excellent health and had great energy, so I was taken by surprise when she announced she'd be moving into a retirement community near my home. "An old folks' home?" I said. "But you're in great shape.""
She weeps alone at night, pressing her face into a damp pillow while her husband sleeps nearby, repeatedly thinking "I want my mom." Her mother lives twenty minutes away in assisted living and appears physically familiar, with dyed hair, familiar gestures and a similar smile, yet conversation reveals looping, limited remarks. The mother repeats short statements about windows, her cat and family comparisons. After decades of independence and community activity, the mother moved into a retirement community at 78, prompting surprise and mixed responses. Visits feel like encountering a diminished, recurring version of the woman she once knew, producing quiet grief.
Read at BuzzFeed
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