The Quiet Circle Volume 1 Issue 1 | Page 44

F I C T I O N
Anamnesis
NANCY GOLD
I
F I COULD FLOAT above my mother ’ s nursing home , I would see that it was shaped as an octagon . The arms house residents ’ rooms , a dining room , activity room , and the front and back entries . They surround a central courtyard where the residents can sit , or wander , but not wander away .
Close to mealtime people crowd the halls . Residents hurry with short shuffling steps or stabs of their walkers to reach the dining room , to claim a spot at the favored tables . I walk with my mother , holding her arm , and she pinches mine to urge me on .
Sometimes I bring my mother homemade food , things she taught me how to make : meat loaf , chicken cutlets , the spaghetti sauce from a recipe handed down to her by her own mother . When I bring an apple pie she pokes at it with her finger , pushes it around her plate . “ What is this ?” Mom asks , peering at it mistrustfully . She brings a forkful up to her mouth and sniffs the crust before she consents to place it into her mouth . “ Now I was quite the cook ,” she says . “ I could make a better pie than this . I taught my daughters , too .”
I don ’ t say that it ’ s her recipe . I don ’ t remind her of the hours she spent , teaching me how to roll out a crust . It ’ s a good day when she remembers she has daughters .
~ On the way back to her room she wants to stop at the lost and found . “ What are you looking for ?” I ask her . “ What did you lose ?” She pushes her lips together tightly , but they still quiver . “ I lost … I lost …”
Tears fill her eyes and she doesn ’ t finish . She lets me lead her to her room . I take
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