I watch as my mother sobs helplessly, hopelessly, her shoulders shaking and her face a mask of grief.

“Remember our new rule, Mom?” I ask her.  “No more tears.”

My mother, her eyes clouded with confusion, looks up at me.  Her eyes don’t focus on me, but I know she’s aware of my presence.  She gasps in tiny bursts as she tries to control her emotions.  “Just one more,” she promises.

Just one more, I think to myself.  That’s the unspoken mantra that haunts my life.  Just one more day when things were normal.  Just one more minute with my father before cancer squeezed the last breath from his lungs.  Just one more hope that my mother isn’t lost to me forever.

This is her life now.  A second-story unit built to prevent escape, decorated with remnants of the past.  Each room has a mock front porch, complete with hanging plants and birdhouses.  The communal room has a large-screen television which plays an endless loop of movies and television shows from their past.  Photos of men in uniform and women in wedding gowns are everywhere; they were young men and women with dreams and hopes and fears.  They were once us.

“Hey,” I say, trying again.  “Do you want to see pictures from the wedding?”

She nods eagerly and I open the folder on my phone.  “Here are the boys,” I say, referring to her grandsons.  “Look how much they’ve grown.”

She laughs loudly, the tears forgotten.  “Look at their hair!” she crows, amused by my nephews’ love for long locks.

I show her a picture of the bride next, a young woman my mother has never met.  “Oh,” my mother says on a happy sigh, “I’ve always loved her the best.”

I open my mouth to continue the conversation before I realize my mother has moved on.  Her attention span is brief and flits around her condensed world like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.  She claps her hands repetitively, makes raspberry sounds with her lips, and stands, unsteady in her new shoes.  Her shoes have been a battle lately.  She prefers to be barefooted; perhaps in her mind, she’s the little girl from Kentucky again, climbing trees and skipping rope with no thoughts of restrictive clothing.

I watch her approach an elderly man.  She hugs him and kisses his bald head.  Does she think he’s her husband?  Does she just enjoy the affection?  It’s a mystery that will never be solved.  The time for questions and answers is long gone.  I’m just happy she still knows how to show warmth.

I look at my watch and see my lunch break is over.  I follow her down the hallway as she wanders aimlessly, trying locked doors and wringing her hands.  I give her a kiss and tell her I’ll be back later.  The word “good-bye” upsets her.

“I love you, Mom,” I say.

“You love me?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn together.  She’s not sure who I am any longer.

“I do.  You’re my mom.”

Her face clears.  “Oh.  Okay.”  She smiles briefly.  “Be careful.”  These are words from her past.  “Be careful,” she would call after me as I would race out of the house, a friend beeping their horn in the driveway.  Be careful.

I study her lined face.  Beyond the thinning hair, the wasting muscles, the perpetually confused countenance, my mother is in there somewhere.  I have a memory of the two of us from decades ago.  She is trying to teach me to swim.  I am afraid of going under.  I don’t like the sensation of water surrounding my head.  We hold hands, facing each other.  “We’ll do it together,” she says with her big smile.  “One, two, three…”

I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.

“Just one more,” I whisper and lean in to kiss her again.