When the Cranes Fly South

by Lisa Ridzén

Keeping your dementia-addled wife’s scarf in a jar just to be able to remember her scent is fundamentally pathetic, after all.

No one has ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory.

I don’t dare keep the scarf out of the jar for too long, because I want the scent to last. You smell so different now that they’ve swapped your soaps and creams. Your brain isn’t the only thing the dementia has changed.

At dinner one day, I snapped and asked what the hell the point of life was if I was too old for a dog.

But as our son approaches me now, I realize that you might have been right, after all. Because it was never you he shouted at over the years; it was me. The problem is that I just can’t help it, the rage. It washes over me like a tidal wave.

I’m still angry with him for wanting to take control of my life, but on the other hand I never want him to let go.