Sundown You Better Take Care

I had to make new memories. All the old ones would just disappear into the air like the smoke from the end of my cigarette. It was that instantaneous sometimes. Sometimes I would have to pretend that your memories happened to me because they were that much more vivid and colorful to my neurons.

You see sundowners would come in like an ocean tide and my life would disappear. It’s not a conscious activity at all, make no mistake. I only know that I’m confused and afraid. I feel as though I have forgotten what I knew but I am completely aware of this fact. It is terrifying.

Sundowners would move in with it’s overnight bag of any question as “I don’t know?” Orientation to time and space becomes “Where are we?”, and “Who the hell are you?”

Sometimes you can recall childhood memories during sundown, but you don’t get to choose the image. That’s the rub. Every once in a while you draw a trauma card. I once remembered my father killing baby mice with a garden hoe and then seeing my husband’s face. Fragmented and furious. I didn’t even know if this really happened and how old I was but the emotion I felt was very real. And I was incensed.

Sometimes, it’s just dark and alone.
and you forget what a car is and how to walk,

And the word for dog. And your left leg won’t stop shaking, but you can remember every kid in your Algebra II class Junior year with Mr. Polley, by God, because sundowners giveth but it also taketh away.

My mom has a complicated neurological condition where she can’t say anything that she means but she knows absolutely EVERYTHING. So can you imagine being trapped in captivity of your own mouth? The words? Not there. But your mind has all of them? And then your daughter’s words come too fast? Can you imagine? I can.

A Room Without a View

Eight years old and full of beans. His smile was a showstopper. Blam! All teeth. We fly through my mind’s eye to places where there are rainbow connections and it ain’t easy being green. We climb mountains and swim rivers from the safety of his chair. He is free. He isn’t hindered by a helmet, or hearing aids. Or the thick, coke bottle glasses that distort his beautiful brown eyes. He isn’t restrained against the safety straps of a wheelchair.

When October came, he closes his eyes tight when we talk of vampires. This ASL sign has sprung this kid into action. He reaches for me and we repeat the sign until it is part of his muscle memory. Sensory deprivation does not mean there is not an opportunity for communication. We are in an otherworldly kind of neighborhood where no one gets shot and forever is real if you believe hard enough.

Ahh, then sweet, sweet November. Turkeys became a big deal. Not because of turkey itself, but because it was the first two syllable word, this boy had ever uttered. And he said it ten thousand beautiful times. I recorded it in a picture frame so I can go there every day.

In this dark and silent space, I could meet him there. My fingers pirouetted in his hands swiftly. Telling him tales of the sun on his face and the moon in his tightly braided hair. I describe the color blue just that of the stripes of his favorite shirt and what love looks like when it hangs in the air.

My arms wrap through his and it is just like dancing. He invites me in, like a true gentleman.

And, of course, I accept. I think it was a waltz.