10/09/2025
๐ ๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ธ๐ฒ๐ ๐๐ฝ ๐ฏ๐ฒ๐ณ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ณ๐ถ๐ฟ๐๐ ๐น๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐ธ๐.
She sits by the window, her wrapper loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are far away, fixed on the mango tree in the compound. The tree is real, but what she sees is not the tree of today. She sees the one of her childhood, tall and heavy with fruit, where children like her gathered and laughed. I call her name, softly at first, then again, and she turns slowly, her face softening into a smile, though she does not fully know who I am.
I have learned to choose my words carefully with Mama G. She does not need the weight of long explanations. She needs words that are simple, calm, and steady, the kind that can slip through the fog of her memory and rest for a moment. When she insists her mother is still alive or that she must hurry to the market, I do not argue. I nod, I smile, and I let her dwell in that softer world her mind has built.
The house itself has changed because of her. Rugs are gone because her steps are slower now, and one careless slip could bring her to the floor. Doors are labelled like gentle reminders that guide her like a quiet hand. The lights stay brighter than before, because shadows frighten her sometimes. Even her clothes are carefully chosen. I no longer open the entire box of wrappers. I lift only two, place them before her, and wait. The smallness of that choice makes her sigh with relief.
Her days unfold in rhythm. Breakfast at the same table. A short walk outside, where she brushes her fingers along the hibiscus leaves. An afternoon nap. Evening prayers. I tried once to move her lunch an hour later, and the restlessness it stirred filled the house like a storm. Now I know: sudden change is the enemy. Routine is her anchor.
Patience has become my greatest teacher. Mama Gโs stories wander in circles, sometimes dissolving midway. I still listen. I still nod. For when I rush her, when irritation curls in my voice, I see the fear in her eyes. The woman who once commanded her home shrinks into herself, small and unsure. It is then I remember that patience is not merely kindness. It is medicine.
And I have also learned that caring for her cannot mean abandoning myself. If I skip meals, if I deny myself rest, my body betrays me. Exhaustion sharpens my tongue, roughens my hands, and she feels it. Even in her forgetfulness, she notices.
Mama G may not always know who I am, but she knows safety when she feels it. She knows kindness. She knows love. And that, more than anything, is what I can give her each day.
๐๐ป ๐๐๐บ๐บ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐, ๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ฒโ๐ ๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐ ๐ฎ๐บ๐ฎ ๐ ๐ต๐ฎ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ด๐ต๐ ๐บ๐ฒ:
1. Keep communication simple
2. Create a safe environment
3. Maintain daily routines
4. Show patience and empathy
5. Never forget to care for myself to
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๐๐ถ๐ธ๐ฒ. ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฒ. ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐๐ฒ โ ๐๐ต๐ถ๐ ๐ฝ๐ผ๐๐ ๐บ๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ฒ ๐๐ผ๐ ๐น๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ.
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