Holding On to a Houseful of Memories

In the gloss of a sunny morning, I walk the Tacoma waterfront, where I start every visit home. Cold, clear bay water laps the bulkheads, revealing rocks, pebbles, shells and starfish. I think of Dad, gone six years. He had a grin, and a way, that made hard things easier. I cannot imagine Tacoma without my parents even as I realize my hold on them is slipping away.

I'm on a mission to empty my parents' rambler so it can be sold. Mom had refused to sell, full of plans to escape institutional living and return home. But at 91, she has dementia and has forgotten the home she bought with Dad in 1952. I feel guilty relief in her latest fracture of memory; we need the money to support her.

We hired an estate team to sell the household goods. When I arrive for the first day of the sale, I count 27 cars on the street. Not being able to park nearby jolts me into thinking about the time when I won't belong here anymore.

I walk through all the rooms quietly, like the customers who are checking glassware for chips and sorting through linens. These are bargain hunters, but the whispering atmosphere feels respectful, as though they know to tiptoe around family totems.

My cellphone rings; Mom is calling from her apartment in the care center a few miles away. I step out to the deck to lie to her in private, telling her I have a meeting and will see her at 3:30.

"Oh, you do," she says, touches of resignation and disbelief in her tone. "I'm all alone here, you know."

"I know you are, Mom. I'll be there."

I like her knowing that we belong to each other, even though when she calls now she often says, "Hi, Toni, it's . . ." I wait through her pause until she says, "Elma." I think she senses we are intimates, but can only come up with her given name.

Later we visit in her room, crowded with its few pieces of furniture. A picture of Cee Cee, her Yorkshire terrier, stands in a red leather frame by her bed. "He adores me!" She laughs with pleasure.

Cee Cee visits Mom, but only in the parking lot. He is "protective," a dog-friendly term assigned him after he bit an aide and a resident. It is an odd comfort to me that her dog has replaced in her affections almost everyone she has ever loved. He is there when we are not. Phone calls don't lick you in the face. Making sure the dog gets there is the best we can do.

"Have I been married more than once?" she asks abruptly.

"Are you thinking of Harry?"