I’m trying to remember one year ago. 
I was teaching in Frankfort at the 
Kentucky History Museum during the week. 
My mother was becoming less coherent 
and I would be awakened in the night, 
needing to change her or move her.
The beauty of the passage of time is that 
I cannot fully reimagine how my days and
nights were spent during that physically 
and emotionally gruelling episode of being 
deeply needed by my aged parents. 
I know I was there. 
I know I was alone in 
the room when she died.
I just can’t remember what 
kept me moving forward. 
Sometimes hindsight is blank.