The phone rang. Sarah’s hand trembled as she reached for it, guided more by muscle memory than conscious thought.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
Sarah pressed the phone tighter to her ear as if clarity might come from closer contact.
“Who is this?” she asked, a surge of panic rising in her chest.
“It’s Jane, your daughter.”
“Oh, Jane! How nice of you to call. How are you, dear?”
Sarah nodded as they discussed the weather and neighbours. Five minutes passed.
“Did you take your medicine today, Mom?”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispered. “I forget things now.”
“I know, Mom. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. Sarah knew that much. She lived in a house built of fog, with shifting walls and vanishing doors. At times, she’d find herself standing in a room with no recollection of how she got there.
“Tell me about your day,” Jane said.
Sarah gazed out the window at her garden and noticed the roses needed pruning. She had always loved roses.
“I watched the birds at my feeder today. The red one came back.”
“That’s wonderful, the cardinal?”
“Yes, the cardinal.” Sarah smiled, pleased to have the word come back to her.
They talked about birds, then recipes. Sarah felt herself grow tired. Conversation required such effort now.
“I should go,” she said.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Who is this again?”
A pause followed. “It’s Jane, your daughter.”
After ending the call, Sarah sat holding the silent phone. Jane’s voice lingered in her mind, fading slowly. She looked at the photographs on her wall, faces she should know, smiling at her from across a widening gap.
She picked up a framed photograph from the table beside her. A young woman with Sarah’s eyes smiled back.
“Jane,” Sarah whispered, testing the name on her tongue.
She couldn’t hold onto who Jane was, but the feelings of warmth and love remained as the details faded.
Sarah put the photograph back in its place and walked slowly to her window. Outside, a cardinal landed on the bird feeder, a flash of red against the green garden.
“Hello, old friend,” she said, pressing her palm against the glass.
The bird didn’t know names either, yet it still sang. It still flew. It still lived fully in each moment.
Sarah watched it peck at the seeds, its movements swift and certain. Though she might forget names and faces and lose her way around her home, she could still feel joy from the cardinal’s visit and the warmth of the sunlight on her skin.
Perhaps that was enough. To find meaning not in remembering but in feeling. To be defined not by what the mind holds, but by what the heart knows.
The cardinal flew away, a streak of colour against the blue sky. Sarah watched until it disappeared, then turned back to her quiet room, to the present moment. The only one she could truly hold.
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