Being your sister

Some days I don’t know who I am.
Today I am your sister.
When I came to give you a lift to town, I’d wondered why your eyes were so bright as you welcomed me with open arms, and a little more excitement than usual.
Although the prospect of good company and a cup of tea always makes Tuesdays something you look forward to.
I know I was your sister, because, as the lights turned green and we drove past the Chinese restaurant, you told me excitedly that your daughter had found some old photos of our aunts.
They were old pictures of Beatrice and the others in their Edwardian dresses. You were unsure how she’d come across them, but thought it was an amazing find. And all the names were written under the photos so you could be sure which aunt was which.
This is plausible as you were born ten years short of a century ago, and whilst my aunts might put on Edwardian clothes to dress up, for yours it was the fashion of the day.
I ponder quietly whether to take the opportunity to correct you, but this would be yet another reminder that our realities are different and would just feed my need to be acknowledged.
And, without the trappings of logic, there is the joy you are experiencing as you tell your story. Your eyes are lit up again, you are smiling.
‘I don’t know how she found the photos, but she did. Of course she didn’t recognise all of our aunts, but I could’.
Tears well up and drop onto my lap as I negotiate a large lorry turning right ahead of us in the lane to our left. I listen, and when I can, I add words of appreciation.
The small upside to your near blindness is that you can have this moment without seeing my reaction. You finish the story as we turn into the car park, all your happiness intact.
As I drive home, I try to understand why I was so upset. The diagnosis of dementia is over a year old and it isn’t distressing to be mistaken for your dear sister, who died more than a decade ago.
I don’t mind being different people on different days and it was precious to feel the sisterly connection, to bear witness to that.
Perhaps it was hearing you praise me in my supposed absence; because some of the tears had been happy tears, I can’t say it was all sad.
You are my mother, I am your daughter.
