We might think that the easing of restrictions means the end to the coronavirus scare, but we’d be wrong.

It has been one year since my mom was moved to her Alzheimer’s care facility, one year of searing emotional upheavals and adjusting to a new reality. If I think back to last year, I remember the utter pain and sadness I felt at moving Mom. I cried in an intense primeval howl as I imagined Mom in her new surroundings frightened and bewildered without us. I felt extreme guilt at having abandoned her, as if we had given up our job of protecting her in the world. The transition w

I truly would rather laugh at Mom’s shenanigans than, well, cry or pull out my hair. So, when she returned from the bathroom and handed my dad a pair of clean folded underwear, it never occurred to me that these were the ones she’d been wearing earlier that morning. I gently touched her thigh and discovered that she had indeed gone commando. That’s what it’s called when you don’t wear underwear. The term was first popularized in the 1970s but it was an episode of the long-run

“These stairs are getting slower and slower,” Mom comments as we walk down the three flights to the street. I laugh at her expressive way of telling me she's moving slowly. I am like an anthropologist discovering the true meaning of her words. When we walk past a kitchen wares store, Mom says, “I remember the first time we went to look for frying pans together.” I decide she's telling me that she enjoys my company. Mom is using her words to suggest that she has a connection t

Every time I tell Mom I can’t visit this week because of Shavuot, the Jewish holiday that commemorates the giving of the Torah, Mom starts talking about Sukkot, the holiday of booths that is celebrated in the fall. I don’t know what the connection is, other than the sound of the holidays’ names. “We used to build a sukkah on our balcony,” Mom tells me. I wonder where she is in time. Certainly not since their move to Israel almost 20 years ago have they constructed a sukkah. A