When I entered this world, my parents embarked on a symbolic act of nurturing by planting a corkscrew willow sapling next to a meandering stream in our Ithaca, New York home. Over time, that tree grew to great heights, reaching a staggering 30 feet. I have fond memories of climbing its sturdy trunk and sliding down its slender branches, desperately avoiding a dip into the jagged waters below. However, as the years went by, I witnessed a slow battle between the tree and the stream, as the force of the water eroded the bank where the corkscrew willow was once firmly rooted.
The nature of memory is peculiar. It shapes our identity and molds our perception of ourselves. It allows us to weave coherent narratives out of the chaos of our lives. And yet, memories have a tendency to fade over time. As I grew older, I learned that some memories need to be distilled, much like extracting the juice from an orange, until only the essence of love remains.
Last summer, I made the journey from my residence in Vermont to visit my aging parents in their retirement community in Ithaca. They had been living there for quite some time, but recently moved into separate rooms. Both of them were battling dementia, and I couldn’t be sure if they still spoke to each other. It had been a whole year since I last saw them, and truthfully, I wasn’t eagerly anticipating this visit.
My mother, then 92 years old, had gradually lost most of her memories over the past few years. There were some silver linings to her dementia initially. She became less anxious and no longer worried about my travels, for instance. But as her memory continued to fade, she forgot about the passing of her oldest son in 2015. Eventually, she began constructing a fantastical version of her past, including her graduation from Cornell University, which had never actually taken place.
When I finally reunited with her in the cafeteria of the memory-care unit that late summer afternoon, she was seated alone, engrossed in her meal. At this stage, she spent more than 20 hours a day sleeping, so I considered myself fortunate to find her awake. To my surprise, her brown hair stood on end, resembling the appearance of a character from a cartoon who had just experienced an electrical shock. Her expression appeared strained and slightly distorted. In earlier years at the retirement home, she had pitied the residents of the memory-care unit.
As I sat down beside her, my mother inquired about my origins and was astounded to learn that I had driven six hours from Vermont to be there. She then asked me which neighborhood I resided in, whether it was Owasco, Cayuga, or Seneca. It suddenly dawned on me that she mistook me for someone else. She was engaging in conversation with me as if I, a 60-year-old still working as a professor, were a fellow retiree.
Like a skilled boxer, I adjusted my approach to the conversation. Our shared past was not going to be a topic of discussion. It was clear that she was having a difficult day, and truthfully, so was I.
In a battle of wills with the cafeteria staff, my mother persistently called out for her dessert, a bowl of vanilla ice cream. A caregiver tried to persuade her to eat more of her omelet, but my mother remained fixated on her desire for dessert. After several rounds of negotiation, they eventually agreed that she could have one more spoonful of eggs. As soon as the server turned away, she defiantly spat the food back onto her plate. The cafeteria once again echoed with her demands for ice cream.
Suddenly, my mother turned to me and asked, “Where are your parents?”
Unable to formulate a response, I found myself confronted with a question one would pose to a lost child, someone whose parents were nowhere to be found.
Throughout my childhood, my mother possessed a chilling scream that reverberated through our home. It still sends shivers down my spine whenever I recall it. Her threat of “Just wait until your father gets home!” often led to punishments from my dad, who was oblivious to the reasons behind them. Striking us with a belt or another object was simply part of his paternal duties.
On a fall day in 1962, my mother took me and my older brother to Stewart Park, situated on the southern end of Cayuga Lake. He was eight years old, and I was just a seven-month-old baby, nestled comfortably inside my stroller, fast asleep as the autumn leaves gently fluttered down. My mother informed my brother that she needed to run a quick errand, a euphemism for her visit to the restroom, and instructed him to keep an eye on me.
Once she disappeared from sight, my brother ventured off and climbed a weeping-willow tree. When my mother returned, she discovered that the stroller and I were missing.
Panic ensued as she frantically searched for a dime to call the police from a nearby payphone. No one blamed my brother, given his tender age. Nor did anyone criticize my mother for her temporary absence. Abductions were rare in Ithaca during that time, and circumstances were undoubtedly different.
Several hours later, the police spotted an elderly woman pushing my stroller. Apparently, she had no children of her own and desired nothing more than a leisurely stroll in the park. Charges were not pressed.
I was too young to personally recall this incident, but my family repeatedly recounted the tale of “the caper of Stewart Park” throughout the years, whether gathered around the dinner table or when one of us briefly strayed from my mother’s side in the grocery store. Eventually, the story acquired the stickiness of memory, and I now possess vivid, seemingly firsthand impressions of that fateful fall day. As a playful joke, my older brothers embellished the narrative, suggesting that the lady had swapped me with another baby. This twist suited me, as I had always felt like the odd one out within the family.
During my visit, I also spent time with my father. Although he remembered my name, our conversation continuously circled around one question: “Where do you live?” This query was raised and answered multiple times. It was kind of him to inquire, but I couldn’t be certain if he comprehended that his wife of 68 years was entering the final stage of her life.
Memory takes time to fade away.
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