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.