“Who are you?” She asked not rudely but out of genuine confusion. Those were the hardest three words to hear in my life.

I fiddle with my coat sleeves and take a deep breath. Her doctor said this could happen.

“Mama, it’s Marilyn. You’re daughter.”

“I don’t have a daughter”

“You do, mama. Don’t you remember me tellin’ ya I’m a girl? I was 13 and you took me shopping for a dress that day.” I have to stifle my heartache.

“Mama?” I ask. Can she hear me?

“Mommy, I’m Marilyn.”

“I know my Marilyn! What makes you think I wouldn’t remember my daughter?!” She acts out, confused and frustrated with me and her mind.

“Okay, mama.” I sit in the chair next to hers and dig in my bag. I pull out some yarn and hold it out for her. I tell her, “I thought this was a nice color. Do you think you could use it?”

My mama holds the yarn in her hands and begins to toy with it before her eyes appear glasses. “This was the color of your father’s suit from our wedding.”

“I know mama. I love the photos you show me”

I say that and I recall a vivid memory of my mother throwing photo albums into a dumpster after a huge argument with dad. She wasn’t really at her best then.

She’s never really been at her best. Maybe this is her best, when she’s seemingly at her worst.