The thing about clearing home spaces is you end up with a hat from one decade on your head, a scarf from another around your neck, and sitting in the middle of a pile of notes, letters, and truth. Yesterday, my daughter ran across a planner Mom used. Tonight, I found a card from Dad to Mom and a cigar box of letters Mom collected from friends when we lived in Spain. All the finds wrecked a little something in me. Especially the planner, because she had told me, “It’s coming.”

There is something perfect and poetic about this planner, printed for 2005, but used in 2017. The recycling, the hippie within I used to tease her about, the logging tasks, the reclaiming or superimposition of time, the infancy of Mom’s relationship with Alzheimer’s.

In 2017 she began telling anyone who would listen, “It’s coming.” My response for several months was, “Stop! You’re going to bring it on sooner.” But she knew it was coming, and we couldn’t (wouldn’t) see it yet.

My daughter found the 2005/2017 planner in the desk drawer where Mom would sit to do her puzzles every evening to fend off the disease. She populated less than twenty of the 100 planner pages, but this was the place, since no one would listen, she made her first effort to claw back her agency over memory.

After many blank pages, she drew a map to her friend Rita’s house. Deeper in, she listed places. It took me a minute, but the list was a map to help her find her way home from my house. She got lost returning from Baton Rouge in 2018 but eventually found her way home. Probably after pulling over to list rural landmarks.

She knew: It’s coming. She fought. That wrecks me.

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