Today is a good day. I haven’t been outside in sometime. Granted, outside is the same as inside in a lot of ways: high wall, constant surveillance, the glaring starkness of it all. There aren’t any moans, though, and no calls for help echoing through the tiled halls. Sometimes I think I recognize that call. I struggle to rise from my wheelchair, frantic to reach the children I know I have. And then I’m on the floor, surrounded by bright colors and loud voices. I try to voice my fears, but my tongue is wood and my throat filled with dust. But then they give me pudding in a little cup, medications carefully tucked inside. I eat it, so they’ll leave me alone, and before the long the trepidation is forced down to a deep part of me.

But today I’m outside. Some scraggly birds peck jadedly at a half empty feeder. A gaggle of little girls trot past me. The shortest and fattest one pauses, glancing over her shoulder. She looks two, maybe three. Slowly she lifts one chubby foot off the smooth walkway and edges toward the straw, scrubby grass just poking through. She is acting like a fugitive.

Sure enough, as soon as her sandaled toes touch the lawn, a woman’s sharp voice rings through the courtyard. “Emma!”

The child cackles merrily, and runs after her two sisters. I know these children; they slip in and out of my memory. I turn to the woman. My tongue feels heavy and I speak slowly. “These are my great-grandchildren.”

“Yes!” She sounds oddly pleased. “That’s right Mom!”

Mom. This is the same child who ran to me crying, on a hot summer day with a skinned knee, straw in her hair? Is this the child who squirmed as I wove her hair in braids? I study her closely. Her hair isn’t red and curly; it’s grey. Her face isn’t the smooth, round one I once cradled in my hands. But there’s a certain tilt to the chin, a gleam in the blue eyes that tells me: yes. This is my Ruth. And I have the oddest suspicion this isn’t the first time I’ve forced myself to this conclusion.

We bask in the sun. Ruth tries to make conversation, but it just confuses me.

“Are the nurses taking good care of you, Mom?”

I hesitate. There haven’t been nurses in the house since Robert had his stroke. But I don’t want her to worry on my account, so I say “Yup, pretty good.”

“Well, that’s good. You like the food? You’ve been eating plenty?”

“I reckon.” I fish for something to say, a reliable piece of information. “”How’s your brother doin’?”

Ruth’s face is impassive, but her eyes fog the slightest bit. She lays her hand on mine. “Remember Mom? Samuel died three years ago.”

“Oh.” I know I should be distraught, my only son dead. But I realize I’ve known this deep down. That happens a lot. Facts I know to be true get muffled and shoved into the darker corners of my mind.

Later we eat some ice cream. Ruth insists on putting a bib on me. “We don’t want to get your pretty jacket dirty, do we?” I said those same words to her, once upon a time. Was it really that long ago? I wiped ice cream from her chin, paddled her brother for smearing his in his hair? I hadn’t spanked him hard. I wasn’t really mad, I just---

“Mom?” Ruth is squeezing my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. “We’ve got to go now, OK Mom?”

I don’t really hear her. I’m too caught up in the kids, each dutifully kissing my cheek. “Bye Granny! Love you!”

They don’t understand how it feels, the memories their soft lips bring back. They won’t know, not until I’m long dead and gone.

Ruth pecks my cheek, her mouth waxy with lipstick. I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. They can’t just leave me alone, with only strangers to take care of me! She whispers in my hair, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Mom.”

It’s a promise she makes every day, a promise she hasn’t yet broken. I relax my grip.

Once they’re gone, I turn to the mirror. I don’t see messy grey hair, watery eyes, a wrinkled face. I see a young woman with her husband in a military uniform. I see a little girl with red curls grasping her mother’s skirt. I see a little boy giggling as frigid ice cream runs through his damp hair and down his sweaty neck.

I smile, and take his hand.