My mother, my children. It’s an old story, says Sharon Olds, the oldest we have on our planet – the story of replacement. I look into my mother’s eyes on each visit home and I wonder anew at the mysteries of aging and loss, wonder at this brilliant woman who now cannot name her children or, occasionally, herself. Mom was a writer and an editor in her working life, and she read widely and avidly with a curiosity that was both insatiable and inspiring. Everything interested her; everyone had a story: “And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.”

Even though she is in the late stage of Alzheimer’s she is still remarkably articulate. Even when her comments are random and nonsensical, her vocabulary is amazing and she is sometimes hilariously funny.

And sometimes, she says something so poignant and moving it brings us close to tears. A few days before I left, I was helping her get ready for bed. She looked at me seriously and said she was worried.

“Worried about what, Mom?”

“Well,” she said. “We don’t have the right information we need for everything we have to talk about.”

It’s the perfect description of her condition now. So much to talk about still, so many stories to tell – she just needs that information, those words. Oh, God Bless her!