gripped the phone tighter. “Maybe. But she remembers while I’m there.”
He hung up.
Weeks blurred into months. I started skipping lunch to make the drive across town. I read the newspaper to Rosie. I rubbed her hands when her knuckles ached.
I told myself it was just the dementia, just words drifting loose.
One afternoon she leaned close, her breath shallow, her eyes clearer than I had ever seen them.
“You’re a good man, son,” she said.
I almost broke down right there.
“Mama, I…”
“Shh.” She patted my
