“It’s been put out.”
“What’s been put out, Mum?”
“It .(Pause) I don’t know.”
“I wonder who put it out, Mum. Did I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Maybe that cat did then,” pointing at a stuffed cloth cat by the fireplace.
Chatting with Mum has been difficult for some time, years even, but lately, she seems to pick up conversations, imagined or otherwise, which bear no relation to what I might have said. The loss of the intimacy that conversation brings has been one of the saddest aspects of Mum’s Alzheimer’s. Somehow, though, these fragments of dialogue are sadder still. It’s as if she’s reaching out for something beyond her grasp.
Going along with her, trying to follow, seems to be the best way. After all, neither of us know what we’re talking about so at least we’re together in that.
So, maybe the stuffed cat put it out. Perhaps I did. “It” might not have been put out at all. Who cares?
Whodunnit? The guilty party?