La Vie

My mother has started to get confused about who I am -- a new stage in her slow, ten-year-long passage through dementia. On a few recent occasions, she's asked me how my family is. And she's not talking about a "chosen family" of friends or my siblings. Actually, the first time, she asked how my "kids" were, and I thought she was being playful and meant my dogs, so I told her. She laughed a little, but it was clear from the look on her face she didn't mean that.

When she asks about my family, I say, "I don't have a family. I'm single."

This past weekend, she said, "But someone told me . . ."

"No," I said, "I don't think so . . ."

"But whose kids are S______ and T______?"

"Those are your brother Billy's kids. I'm your son."

These particular moments of confusion are rare and fleeting, for now. She still smiles every time I come over and often gets teary when I leave. But I know the tears don't last long.

Her favorite tune these days, which she hums over and over like a theme, is "La Vie en Rose."