The Dark Forest

There came a time when Terri stopped speaking.

At first, everyone thought the words would return.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Perhaps next week.

Perhaps when she was rested.

But tomorrow became another tomorrow,

and the words did not come.

Eventually, people stopped asking questions.

They learned to sit beside her instead.

Terri spent long hours in her wheelchair,

her hands resting quietly in her lap,

her eyes fixed upon some distant place

no one else could see.

The room might be filled with sunlight.

Someone might open the curtains.

A bird might sing outside.

A caregiver might gently call her name.

Nothing seemed to reach her.

Terri was somewhere else.

Somewhere deep inside the dark forest

that had slowly grown within her mind.

There were paths in that forest.

She knew there were.

She could feel them beneath her feet,

though she could no longer walk them.

One path led to her childhood.

Another led to a kitchen

where someone was laughing.

Another opened onto a summer afternoon

that might have happened

or might have been something her mind created

from pieces of other summers.

And somewhere beyond the trees

was her father.

Always her father.

Sometimes she could see him clearly.

Sometimes he was only a shadow.

Sometimes she wasn't sure

if he was her father at all.

She would stare into the corner of the room

and follow something invisible

with her eyes.

Perhaps she was watching a memory.

Perhaps she was watching a dream.

Perhaps she was trying to solve

the oldest mystery left to her:

Who am I

when I can no longer remember

who I have been?

The question had no words now.

Only a feeling.

A terrible emptiness.

Identity seemed to be dissolving

like fog beneath the morning sun.

Her name was Terri.

She knew that once.

Or perhaps someone had told her.

She knew she belonged to someone.

A daughter.

A mother.

A sister.

A friend.

But the relationships had become untethered

from the names.

People remained as feelings

after the stories disappeared.

A hand on her shoulder

might make her smile.

A familiar voice

might cause her eyes to brighten.

A song from long ago

might bring a tear to her cheek.

But she could not say why.

And so, each day,

a little more of Terri seemed to disappear.

First the dates.

Then the places.

Then the names.

Then the faces.

Then the stories.

Then the ability to tell

whether the stories had ever happened at all.

And still she remained.

Breathing.

Watching.

Listening.

Somewhere behind those quiet eyes,

something was still happening.

No one knew what.

Perhaps nothing.

Perhaps everything.

One afternoon,

a caregiver wheeled her beside the window.

Outside, the mountains were covered

in the soft green of spring.

A breeze moved through the trees.

Terri stared at the branches.

For several minutes she did not move.

Then something changed.

Her eyes widened.

She lifted one hand.

The caregiver followed her gaze.

A small bird had landed on the windowsill.

Terri watched it.

The bird tilted its head.

Terri tilted hers.

For a moment,

they simply looked at one another.

Then Terri smiled.

It was a tiny smile.

Almost nothing.

But it was there.

The caregiver smiled too.

“You see the bird?”

Terri said nothing.

“Isn't it beautiful?”

Terri continued looking.

The bird flew away.

Her eyes followed it

until it disappeared beyond the trees.

Then she lowered her hand.

The moment was gone.

Perhaps she had already forgotten it.

Perhaps she had forgotten the bird

before it even reached the sky.

But for one brief instant,

something inside the forest had opened.

A clearing.

A little sunlight.

No name was necessary.

No history.

No explanation.

Just a bird.

Just spring.

Just Terri.

And perhaps that was what remained

when everything else had fallen away.

Not the woman she had been.

Not the memories she could no longer hold.

Not the arguments, the disappointments,

the mistakes, or the years.

Only the capacity to receive

one small beautiful thing.

A bird on a windowsill.

A hand held gently.

Warm sunlight on her face.

The sound of rain.

The familiar scent of flowers.

The quiet presence of someone

who refused to leave her alone

in the forest.

Maybe this was the final cruelty

of dementia:

She could no longer remember

the people who loved her.

But perhaps the greater mystery

was that she could still feel

that she was loved.

Terri closed her eyes.

Deep inside the darkness,

she imagined her father's hand

resting over hers.

She could not remember

what he had said.

She could not remember

when he had died.

She could not even be certain

that the memory belonged to him.

But she knew the feeling.

Safe.

Warm.

Loved.

And somewhere in the forest,

the little girl she had once been

sat beside her.

Neither spoke.

They didn't need to.

For the first time in a very long time,

Terri was not trying to find her way out.

She simply sat beneath the trees.

And listened.

Perhaps there was no Terri anymore

in the way there once had been.

Perhaps there was only this:

a quiet soul,

a fading mind,

a lifetime disappearing into mist,

and beneath it all,

something no disease had yet managed to take.

Love.

Still there.

Waiting quietly

in the dark.