I make such an effort not to assign judgment to our visits. I don’t want to value our visits as “good” or “bad.” I want to see them as what they are. Spending precious time together.

And it’s so hard to withhold judgment. Today was a good, no a great, visit. She recognized me (maybe) when I arrived. She hugged me and said, “I love you so much.” She cried a bit, somewhat shaken, then asked, “Can we go?” I checked that she had shoes on, her hair was (somewhat) brushed, and nodded yes.

We walked outside, and in the sun, she stood, eyes closed, arms outstretched, and said, “I just love this.” She teaches me perspective. I walk outside and feel the oppressive heat of the south in the summer, magnified by my entrance into menopause. She walks outside and feels freedom and the warmth of the sun. I place myself in her shoes.

I help her into the car and buckle her seatbelt. I connect my iPhone and then start the car. She hears the familiar chords of “You Are My Sunshine” and starts to tap her foot and utter sounds. They aren’t words, per se, but noises to accompany the lyrics. We hold hands as I drive 25 miles per hour around the windy roads to our favorite restaurant.

We’ve been coming here for a year and a half, once or twice a week. The staff know her and affectionately call her “Mama.” They kindly nod and smile when she utters non-sensical phrases and kiss them on the cheek. I almost cry (and sometimes I do) at their kindness.

We order the same thing every time we dine. Two half and half ice teas (half sweet, half unsweet), a burger, cooked medium well, no onions, sliced in half, and a house salad with ranch dressing. Rosemary fries. As we’re waiting, Mom grabs my hands and plays a version of patty-cakes in tune with the music playing on the speakers. I say, “We’re just having the best day,” and she confirms that yes, we are. I feel somewhat of a connection. I see a sparkle in her eyes. I am so grateful. There is a connection, however tenuous, between us.

She utters non-sensical phrases, and I nod my head and respond with non-committal phrases that seem to comfort her. “I don’t know when that will happen.” “I agree.” “I’ll be.” “Would you look at that.” For anyone overhearing our conversation, they would be confused. We don’t make sense. But to Mom, maybe we do.