Babycakes and Friendly Frank
We stood naked outside the shower, waiting for the water to warm. Always the gentleman, Frank turned to me and said politely, “I’m sorry. My name is Frank. What should I call you?” I quipped, “Well, you can call me Carol. Or you can call me Sweetie. Or you could call me Babycakes.” He looked down at me, smiled wistfully and said, “I used to call my wife Babycakes.” After 48 years of marriage, my husband, suffering from dementia, had no idea who I was. I never loved him more, despite his willingness to shower with a naked stranger. — Carol Weisman
A Picture of Life
“I need a photo of old, dead people,” my 4-year-old announced. At school, they were building a Día de los Muertos altar. I found a photograph of my Italian grandparents on their honeymoon. It was 1947, after the war. They had eaten cats, hidden from Nazis and survived. They had met in Turin when a tram’s screeching halt sent Nonna flying into Nonno’s arms. In the picture, they are in Venice, feeding pigeons in Piazza San Marco. I imagined the sun’s warmth, fluttering birds. “Are they old and dead?” my daughter asked. No — in my mind — they are young and alive. — Sigrid Lupieri
My Fiercest Fan
My mother hates my failing eyes. Throughout my childhood, she would curse as if she had stubbed her toe whenever the optometrist announced an increase in my prescription. Now, I go to appointments alone. At first, it was a relief to deteriorate without her commentary. But this year, when the doctor said my eyes were stable at age 26, I looked longingly at the empty visitor chair. Had I let her, she would have been sitting right there, smiling up at me as if we had won the lottery. — Shilpa Sajja
Healing at Hawksmoor
At Hawksmoor, an older man at a nearby table gestured toward my hand. “Don’t wait,” he told Yair. “Put a ring on her finger.” He didn’t know the dinner was complimentary in honor of Craig, my late husband, who had chosen the British steakhouse for his final meal. Too sick to leave home, Craig put on a tie and the restaurant hand-delivered a Sunday roast. Three months into my new relationship, I finally went in person. “Don’t wait,” the man repeated before leaving. We laughed and held hands. Craig would have loved that I was there, laughing again. — Shannon Carroll
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