F I C T I O N
Anamnesis
NANCY GOLD
I
F I COULD FLOAT above my mother’ s nursing home, I would see that it was shaped as an octagon. The arms house residents’ rooms, a dining room, activity room, and the front and back entries. They surround a central courtyard where the residents can sit, or wander, but not wander away.
Close to mealtime people crowd the halls. Residents hurry with short shuffling steps or stabs of their walkers to reach the dining room, to claim a spot at the favored tables. I walk with my mother, holding her arm, and she pinches mine to urge me on.
Sometimes I bring my mother homemade food, things she taught me how to make: meat loaf, chicken cutlets, the spaghetti sauce from a recipe handed down to her by her own mother. When I bring an apple pie she pokes at it with her finger, pushes it around her plate.“ What is this?” Mom asks, peering at it mistrustfully. She brings a forkful up to her mouth and sniffs the crust before she consents to place it into her mouth.“ Now I was quite the cook,” she says.“ I could make a better pie than this. I taught my daughters, too.”
I don’ t say that it’ s her recipe. I don’ t remind her of the hours she spent, teaching me how to roll out a crust. It’ s a good day when she remembers she has daughters.
~ On the way back to her room she wants to stop at the lost and found.“ What are you looking for?” I ask her.“ What did you lose?” She pushes her lips together tightly, but they still quiver.“ I lost … I lost …”
Tears fill her eyes and she doesn’ t finish. She lets me lead her to her room. I take
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