Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

What if I Forget

I never got through The Notebook yet my mother thinks it is the ultimate love story. I don’t believe in love stories. I don’t believe is selflessness. Perhaps that is too simple. Perhaps. In truth there is very little I believe in these days.

My mother had me in what she considered “late in life”, her 30s. Now she is late in life, and life has dealt her a few blows. Cancer a couple of times, knee replacement, debilitating arthritis, husbands who have died and those who simply left, and children that do not love her. I think I do love her, despite everything.

And now her latest blow, Alzheimer. It’s the first stage, but it is not a surprise. When she forgets things, which she has been doing more frequently she excuses it by reminding anyone who will listen that she has never been smart, after all she didn’t even graduate the eight grade.

Funny how this all breaks down. She doesn’t have James Garner to lull her back into her life. She has a daughter who writes poems about her life. When she danced with my grandmother, learned she had uterine cancer, broke my brothers fingers, beat us, hid us from our father, made sure love stories were never to be believed in.

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