A Daughter’s Voice

The pathway to memory

Deborah Barchi
Feb 14 · 1 min read
Photo of my mother taken by Debbie Barchi

My mother sometimes knows me. And sometimes she does not.

Sometimes I am her sister. Sometimes her mother. Sometimes an old friend from school.

I am never sure which it will be.

“Mummy,” I say, taking her hand. “It’s Debbie Doll.”

“Debbie Doll!” she smiles. For she remembers suddenly the name she gave her little girl all those years ago.

But at times even that prompt is not enough. Softly I say a few more words, and then her smile returns.

“Oh, my daughter, Debbie Doll! I recognize your voice!”

I recall how sometimes people with dementia grow bright and happy when they hear music they have loved. Perhaps my voice sounds like music to my mother’s ears?

I soothe my heart with this reflection. To my mother so often lost in a mist , my voice can sometimes be the music to help part the haze.

“I love you, Mummy!” I say, squeezing her hand.

“I love you too, my Debbie Doll!”

“The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes.”

Thanks to Tre L. Loadholt

By Crow’s Feet

Redefining what it means to age. Take a look.

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Deborah Barchi

Written by

Deborah Barchi has recently retired from her career as a librarian and now has time to read, explore nature, and write poetry and essays. 824drb@gmail.com

Crow’s Feet

“The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes.” (Frank Lloyd Wright) Non-fiction pieces, personal essays, occasional poems and short fiction that explore how we feel about how we age and offer tips for getting the most out of life.

Deborah Barchi

Written by

Deborah Barchi has recently retired from her career as a librarian and now has time to read, explore nature, and write poetry and essays. 824drb@gmail.com

Crow’s Feet

“The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes.” (Frank Lloyd Wright) Non-fiction pieces, personal essays, occasional poems and short fiction that explore how we feel about how we age and offer tips for getting the most out of life.

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