Arlene has started pacing the house back and forth, which I read is a pattern in geriatric dogs that displays Alzheimers.
My mother paces around her kitchen.
Arlene is disoriented and walks into corners and cannot get out.
My mother drives her car right into other cars. My neighbors suggested taking away her key – her key? I said, might as well say her life.
Arlene misses the steps and leaps off the bottom or tumbles and falls on the ascend.
My mother misses her step and cracks her ribs, busts her mouth, gashes her legs and arms.
Arlene eats with a fury and drinks water as if someone might take it away from her for good.
My mother hoards cookies and jars and bread and chips everywhere in the house and eats till she is getting fat like a chubworm.
Arlene looks at me and breaks my heart.
My mother looks at me and breaks my heart.
Growing old is not for pussies.