The three generations of women before me ended their lives with dementia. My great grandmother’s demise may have started when her husband was killed by a train when his truck stalled on the tracts which crossed through their farm.

She heard the crash. Then she spent her remaining years moving back and forth every six months between her daughter in Ohio and her daughter in North Carolina. I remember sitting on her bed at Gran’s house going through a photo album of old black and white photos as she talked about each photo. I was too young to understand how sad this was. I have those photos now.

My gran’s confusion started when she inherited a house full of thousands of lovely things from her aunt.

There were enough treasures in Aunt Ethel’s house to fill all Gran’s daughters and granddaughter’s houses with unusual furniture, clothes, art, jewelry and dishes. This sorting overwhelmed her brain at her time of grief and years after.

My mama has dementia now. Maybe her trigger was worrying about my daddy’s health. She hovered over him like it was her hobby. It was hard to witness a brilliant woman turn into a shadow.

I have been overwhelmed since clearing the family home this past summer. We sorted through sixty-three years of everything. The heirlooms went to the mountains. Many boxes came here.

When I am home, I feel their presence. I must sort them to be free. So here I am again, evaluating, burning, consolidating. Will I ever be done? Or will my brain balk at the task and slowly shut down to protect itself.

I cannot leave such a burden for my children, especially Rose. Her museum is already full.

Mama FLOW