Janelle Taylor

And I leaned my head on her shoulder and slept. Does she recognize you? For a while, after we first moved my mother into an assisted living facility, she often said that she wanted to go home. I understood this to mean that she wanted to move back to the house where she had lived for 40 years until my father's death, the house in which I grew up.

And I leaned my head on her shoulder and slept. Does she recognize you? For a while, after we first moved my mother into an assisted living facility, she often said that she wanted to go home. I understood this to mean that she wanted to move back to the house where she had lived for 40 years until my father's death, the house in which I grew up.

Usually, I responded with my own mild version of reality orientation, explaining as gently as possible that that house was all empty and cold now, and nobody was there to keep her company or help her do stuff, so it was probably better to stay here. One time, though, I asked her a question instead. You mean home to the house up in Edmonds? No, on the farm, she answered. You go downtown?

Usually, I responded with my own mild version of reality orientation, explaining as gently as possible that that house was all empty and cold now, and nobody was there to keep her company or help her do stuff, so it was probably better to stay here. One time, though, I asked her a question instead. You mean home to the house up in Edmonds? No, on the farm, she answered. You go downtown?

With her raised arm, she traced out the curve of a long-ago road. For the first few years of her life, my mother had lived on a small farm in southern Idaho before her father moved the family to Seattle during World War II to seek work on the docks. "'They're inside there,' she added. "'Who?' I asked. "'My mom and my dad.'" My mother's in her 70s.

With her raised arm, she traced out the curve of a long-ago road. For the first few years of her life, my mother had lived on a small farm in southern Idaho before her father moved the family to Seattle during World War II to seek work on the docks. "'They're inside there,' she added. "'Who?' I asked. "'My mom and my dad.'" My mother's in her 70s.

Her parents are not waiting for her inside an Idaho farmhouse. You could use that evidence to draw a clear line between us. Me, here, on the side of reality, competence, personhood, recognition. Her over there, on the side of delusion, incapacity, not quite fully human. But what she was longing for was her childhood home. She missed her mom and dad.

Her parents are not waiting for her inside an Idaho farmhouse. You could use that evidence to draw a clear line between us. Me, here, on the side of reality, competence, personhood, recognition. Her over there, on the side of delusion, incapacity, not quite fully human. But what she was longing for was her childhood home. She missed her mom and dad.

She was trying in her own way to hold on to them, just as I was trying against the odds to hold on to her. Our predicament is exactly the same.

She was trying in her own way to hold on to them, just as I was trying against the odds to hold on to her. Our predicament is exactly the same.