Cottonwoods ...

A morning in early June, and I'm running alongside Lake Takanasee under a blue sky, into a slight breeze. It's 65 degrees and I'm feeling good at a good pace; perfect. There's a cottonwood tree nearby, and her seeds are dancing on the wind, catching the sunlight, like flurries.

And in that moment I am taken back ten years, back to Indianapolis, back to helping Mom in her struggle with her own ill health, back to helping with her at-home care for Dad, with his Alzheimer's. While physically still strong, he was, as nearly as anyone could tell, mostly gone. He watched CNN but couldn't say what he'd just seen. Sometimes he froze, standing confused, frightened, mute, unmoving, for ten minutes at a time. He may have known who I was, sometimes, and may not -- there was no way to know. He wanted to drive, and would be angry with Mom when she'd explain, again, that he couldn't drive any longer. He'd be beyond angry when he couldn't find the keys to the car, which of course she had hidden. What remained of Dad, which wasn't Dad, was a threat to Mom. He had other behavioral problems. It was time to find him suitable care, time to free Mom.

We made plans, and took him to see his doctor. Dad introduced me as his father. The doctor asked him some questions, asked Mom some more. It was all pro forma; the choreography had been worked out in advance. The session ended, and as Mom and I left the doctor asked Dad to stay for a minute.  Off he went to the memory care unit. Mom and I sat down on a bench outside the building entrance, weeping. I looked up, and through watery eyes saw cottonwood seeds drifting, everywhere, lighting the sky, floating on the wind.

Six months later, on the day after Thanksgiving, I was in Maine. The phone rang. It was Mom. Dad was dead.