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Alice

For her seventy-sixth birthday, my mother, Alice, wanted spaghetti and meatballs and vanilla cake with chocolate icing. We gave her a small black kitten with white spots. When she asked, “So, how old am I?” she gave us a new theme song for the year.

“Seventy-six trombones? When did that happen?”

Seventy-six trombones led the big parade. Alice remembers all the songs from The Music Man and countless others from her youth. The present is more elusive. These days she doesn’t remember that she has Alzheimer’s. But she used to. And she always sings.

One May morning, she stood by my dining room windows, looking out over the rolling fields, and sang this bit from Babes in Arms:

It seems we stood and talked like this before

We looked at each other in the same way then,

But I can’t remember where or when.

The clothes you’re wearing are the clothes you wore.

The smile you are smiling you were smiling then,

But I can’t remember where or when.

She stopped and she smiled and said, “That should be the Alzheimer’s theme song.”

Aliceheimer’s.