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Forgotten Amber Leckie At first, my mother’s beautiful brain began to fall away slowly. Then by pieces. Then by chunks. Soon the simple acts of writing labels on objects around the house and practicing her memory flash cards daily were no longer beneficial. I could write a million post-it notes, attach them all over my body “Son,” “Ben,” “Benny,” “Your only child,” and her face when she first sees me every morning, would still be muddled with confusion. As soon as I wake up, I notice my room is not how it should be. The dresser’s been moved, my jewelry case is gone, my husband is not snoring loudly next to me. I push my feet into a pair of slippers and make for the stairs. I see my husband standing in the kitchen, pouring two cups of coffee. I was unaware he knew how to make coffee. I note the repulsion on his face as I pull away from our morning kiss and I can feel myself sink down. I was married once. Years ago. We fell in love young. It was my decision to move back in, the wife was against it, but it’s hard to argue someone who simply wants to take care of their aging, forgetful mother. It was amusing to me to see my wife’s view of my mother completely shift over the course of about four months. They got along so well before my mom got sick, almost too similar to one another. Too smart, too beautiful, too neurotic. I think what pushed her over the edge was my mother regularly confusing me for my father. She was never a fan of the occasional “morning kiss,” neither was I to be honest, but it’s easier than starting something. You never know how my mother will react. My wife never understood my desire to stay and at some points, neither do I. Why stay for someone who wouldn’t even know if you were gone? I’m unsure if I dislike having no name over having someone else’s identity entirely. At least then I get the spark in her eyes as she hobbles down the stairs towards me. Only if it was actually for me. I sometimes let myself daydream. Always a mistake. The idea of one lucid day where my mother is all smile, grace, with intelligence shooting out blindly. Then I remind myself what it would be like, for her. Waking up conscious in a world you haven’t seen or smelled or touched in twenty years. She’d despise herself for all the things she’s missed out on. Dad’s death. Multiple graduations. One wedding. I walk into the mirrorless bathroom and I reach down to caress my