Four Years Are Gone

            Four years are gone. 

            I ate dinner with Mom last night.  Several times she asked me what I was doing now and where I lived. 

            The winning topic was Grandma and Grandpa’s letters.  That I am transcribing them gives her great pleasure every time I mention it.  Sitting at our table was a male resident, who listened politely as Mom explained, “Our parents wrote letters to each other when they were in college.”

            A time or two she asked me, “You don’t have a room here, do you?”  And then she asked if I usually ate with her.

 “No, this is the first time,” I answered. 

“Well, where do you eat?”

“At home with John.”

“Oh, do you live in same house?”

“No, I live in your house across the yard from him.”

“Really?  I can’t quite picture it.”

And then a little later, “Who fixes your meal?”

“I fix it myself.”

She is surprised that I don’t have someone to fix it for me.

When I tell her that I moved out here four years ago, she asks where I lived. 

“With you in your house.”

She seems surprised and says, “Really?  Why?”

“Well, you needed some extra help.”

“What was I doing then?”

And so we start the conversation again, and I realize it is time to let go of the guilt that trails me over moving her out of her house.  After all, she does not remember it.