The Lifted Veil

It’s strange the things that stick in our memories. Or don’t. Mom and I were out for the day. As I was bringing coffee back to our table, someone accidentally bumped me, and the two full cups of coffee hit the floor, splashing my legs and skirt.

“Are you all right?” Mom asked, jumping up to help me. Her Alzheimer’s receded and she suddenly became “Mom” again. She grabbed some napkins. “Let me look at you,” she fussed, wiping my skirt and checking my legs. Thankfully, I hadn’t been burned.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I said. “I’m fine, really. And look! They’ve even brought us more coffee.”

Mom and I sat back and drank our coffee in the summer sunshine. We talked and laughed and chatted, the accident forgotten.

When Dad picked us up to take us home, I was so surprised to hear Mom tell him about the spilled coffee. She’d remembered! These days, she wasn’t remembering much of anything about her activities. It was as if the veil of Alzheimer’s had been lifted momentarily.

For me, having my mother back for those few short minutes was what I’d remember.