They are all so confused, the poor dears. They call this place “the home.” It’s by no means anyone’s home. It certainly isn’t mine!
I wonder what ever happened to my beautiful Steiffel table-lamp? I don’t see it here anywhere. I know it was frivolous of me to buy it, but, oh, it was so lovely! It gave our whole living room an air of class. I yearn so for class. It was terribly expensive, and he had looked worried, but he said it was all right for me to buy it. He always said that when I wanted something. Sometimes he thought he cared for me more than I did for him. It makes me feel like crying. I really did love that lamp. Later the shade became bent, but not badly. It happened after he died, when I moved from the house. They told me I should sell it and move, but I wonder if they were right. That was when the confusion first began...slowly, little by little. He had kept me sane. What was his name? I wish I could remember. I think that’s his picture over there on the dresser, smiling at me, but I can’t be sure. Sometimes it looks like my grandfather’s picture. It’s hard to keep things straight. My grandfather had red hair and a bushy mustache, so that can’t be his picture after all. My grandfather was tall and used to carry me on his shoulder when I was little. He said I was his favorite. I think there were ten of us, but I’m not sure. I think I was the oldest. Everyone said I was the prettiest. I think that’s what they used to say.
She came to see me again today. She wheeled me out onto the patio because she said the sunshine would do me good. “Vitamin D,” she said. I think it was today that we were outside. She says she’s my daughter, and at times I believe her. Other times, I’m sure she is my mother. I try not to call her “Mamma,” because it makes her forehead pucker. Sometimes I forget. I asked her again how old I am. She said 91. I think that’s what she said, but that can’t be right, because if I ‘m 91, that makes her well over a hundred. Maybe I misunderstood, or maybe I dreamed it.
My eyes are still pretty good. I can see quite far without glasses. It’s reading close that gives me trouble, but I don’t read much. I used to love it, but now the words don’t have anything to do with me anymore at all. I see far away, and I remember far away, too. I lie here and remember things one after the other. She says some of the things I tell her about are wrong – that I am confused. I remembered aloud to her today how he had raised those two little boys because their mother had died and he felt sorry for them. They came to live with us, although I told him, “We have enough to do with feeding our own!” But she said no strange little boys had ever lived with us. She said I must have dreamed it. I have to remember not to reminisce with her anymore. It really disturbs her, and then we argue.
She says I dreamed it about my wedding ring, too, but I know it happened. She says I lost it here at the home. She says it was too big on my finger since I am so thin now – that it had come off in bed and was probably gathered up with the bedclothes and lost in the laundry. That’s utter nonsense! I distinctly remember that I lost it in all the confusion when the ocean liner sank when he and I were on our honeymoon. I wish I could remember his name. I think it must have been a nice name, because he has a nice face. He smiles at me all day over there from the dresser. She says he and I were never shipwrecked. She’s lying; I know she is. She says I either dreamed it or saw it on TV. I never watch TV. That woman does, but I never do...that woman who has the nerve to sleep in my other bed in here. I used to scold her and tell her she’s not welcome in my house, but now I keep silent. She’s old, and I feel sorry for her. Maybe she has no place to go. Besides, she may tell on me, and I just don’t know about the people who are in charge here. They seem nice enough, but I don’t like it when they put that cage around my bed. My mother says it’s not a cage, but just bars to keep me safe. She infuriates me sometimes! What is a cage, after all, but bars? Keep me safe from what? If she were not my mother, I would smack her. I’ll just tell her she needn’t visit me anymore. No, I won’t tell her that. I can’t tell her that. She will feel hurt. She’s my daughter, and I love her. I can’t hurt her. I have always tried to keep her from pain. I guess I always will. I hope she comes today. It’s lonely when she does not come.
Oh, here comes that pretty young black girl to wheel me to the dining room. I’ll ask her. “Say, dear, do you know if my mother is coming today?”
Look at her, she just smiles at me. She always just smiles. She’s an idiot! They all are!