“In the days following my mother’s passing, a celebration of her life took away some of the stinging hurt and confusion I felt. People gathered at her best friend’s house with flowers, hugs, and stories. They all looked at me with compassion and sadness. Being older, nobody thought my father would out-live her. She was 56 and he, 70. The celebration of my mother’s life, really, was for his benefit, to ease his pain. It was my first memorial.

Twelve days later, at 5 o’clock in the morning, the phone shattered the quiet at the cabin. My brother was on the other end.

“You’d better come down to Seattle, get on the next ferry, Harry has died.” I heard his words, but it was shocking, I was in disbelief.

“He fell in the night, He had a heart attack.”

(Painting and essay by Annie Howell-Adams)

I can still see my mom’s strut as she maneuvered around memory care tethered to her shiny blue walker with its floral satchel affixed to the front. When she was happy, that girl of ours would sashay down those halls in a way that said, I’ve still got it, leaving all who witnessed her chuckling with delight as that bony butt of hers shook its way to the dining room.

It struck me then that, even five years into her Alzheimer’s journey, she still found a way to shine despite her advancing through a disease that diminishes people until they are dull. And beyond.

It was as if Mom was determined to prove her own self wrong the way she continued to charm a room. After all, she’s the one who once said to me, “The older you get, Shana, the more invisible you become.”