A Tiny Tale

by Beth Alexander Walsh

She cries at the sight of me. She tells me I remind her of the family she once had. I tell her she still has a family. I am living proof. She blames me for her decline; me and the assisted living complex. I tell her she needs to be here, to be safe, to have help. She shakes her head and sits in her chair clutching her box of tissues. 

I'm so tired. I'm tired of the emotions, the anger, the fear, the crying. I'm tired of doctors who shrug when I ask advice. I'm tired of the pills and their little compartmentalized trays and the paperwork that keeps them coming. I'm tired of the words: arthritis, osteoporosis, incontinence, psychosis, dementia, ALZHEIMERS!  I'm so tired.

"You look pretty today Beth."

I look up to see her smiling face and hazel eyes full of recognition.

"Thank you Mom."

I walk over and give her a kiss on the cheek.

Today is a good day.