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192 pages, Paperback
First published September 9, 2011
"Last night I dreamed that it had snowed heavily and was very cold, a frosty night, and that she wanted to play outside, in her nightdress. She danced through the garden barefoot in the snow, and hid in a hollow tree trunk. She wanted to sleep, she said, and there was no moving her, while it got colder and darker.
I heard someone, perhaps my father, say that she no longer had any awareness of cold or time, and it might be best if we let her sleep. We went inside and left her behind.
In the morning I went into the garden. The snow had receded. It was an early spring day. Between the bare tree trunks and the blooming, shining-white wood anemones I saw children who seemed at once very young and ancient romping over the paths. They cooed and screamed and had identical white dressing gowns on. One of them danced past me exuberantly and mumbled something. I knew it was my mother.
I saw her disappear into the undergrowth with those other children, heard their laughter fading and I thought: it’s for the best."
This is the mouth I gazed at for heaven knows how long in the cradle. This is the mouth whose gymnastics of caressing, whisper and lullaby must have pulled me upright on the slippery surface of words. This is the mouth that is now shedding its language, stripping the words vowel by vowel into puffs of breath, gnashing of the teeth, smacking of the lips.Mortier reveals the perversity at the core of Alzheimer's disease - that it steals the mind while leaving the body intact, even healthy - before desperately asking, "When does care become another word for torture?"
It is as if reverse birth pangs are passing through your cells and each wave is taking something else of you with it.
. . . what probably matters most as long as we're breathing: that love is attention. That they are two words for the same thing. That it isn't necessary to try to clear up every typo and obscure passage that we come across when we read the other person attentively - that a human being is difficult poetry, which you must be able to listen to without always demanding clarification[.]
She is now a glacial valley - an ice field has scraped over her, and the earth has been scoured away by the masses of ice. In the bare stone, wide furrows are legible. Every relief has been smoothed flat.