The world of a petite, small-boned woman with a big heart and easy smile can get smaller every day. Especially if she has dementia.
The first time you bathe her you are beckoned to memories of loving hands holding you and bathing you and speaking away any fears. That’s what mamas do. What do daughters do who use exfoliating gloves to gingerly scrub and massauge frowns, furrowed brows and wash away folds of fears. Mama, I will morph into a bed of rose-scented down feathering. I will step into the tub with my neon blue shower-capped head and hold you tight and fast. You will not fall. I will deflect if yous. And rush whispers of I wills to your ear. Potent reimaginings of Runaway Bunny float in my head. She is my bunny who runs away into herself. Momentarily. And I await her awash in homemade love. She will stand. She quivered once as I stood her up from the shower chair, a fearful moment passes as she clutched the turquoise-colored plastic chair (her favorite range of colors)—and the familiarity of it, albeit outside of the tub. I say: Ma, put your face to the water. I got you. Realizing it had been a long ago time for water to dance upon her face and flow past shuttered eyes and mini-globed cheekbones, high and soft. Water trickled toward her mouth. Smiling. Mouth. I whispered: I remember that you liked the water. I remember the pool. I remember the boldness. She remembered too: Can I just stand here? With the quizzicalness of one who thirsts—I held her as she faced the feel of cool water, unabated: life giver, granter, gifter. Mami Wata.
Thank you Mama for trusting me to this sweet homemade love moment between a mother and daughter. In a reversal of fortune.
*Dementia is ravaging Black communities. Be aware. Be proactive. Be eyes and ears. Be hands. And Be Homemade Love.
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