Mothers’ Day in the UK was in April so, when the US gets going on theirs, I always think I’ve forgotten and start clicking around the chocolates and Interflora sites. I used to phone but now there is no conversation; just bland scripts or sudden bursts of unaccountable distress. Dementia has stolen the person my mother once was and left behind a husk. Our memories are confined to black and white photos and the oral accounts handed on by earlier generations. These will undoubtedly become fragile and subject to contraction and distortion over the time.

Old age is not always so unkind as to take our personalities, and many of us can expect to live well for very many years. The image we hold of ourselves – the 25 year old we are in our heads – has a much better chance now of being appreciated down the years as the options for recording our lives proliferate. Last night, I was at my niece’s 21st birthday celebration. Not only was it multi generational, with the over 21s and the very over 21s bopping just as hard as the new young adults, every move most likely found its way onto a plethora of digital devices. When consciousness has returned to the owners of the devices, I can expect to find myself tagged on Facebook. In future, we won’t have to recount tales of ‘how it was in my day’; there will be an app for that.

Now take a look at Christi Craig’s inspiring post:

Have you ever looked into your mother’s eyes and seen past the woman who is caregiver, chef, and chauffeur? I have. It was 1986, the year I turned sixteen. That year, my mother threw me a huge birthday party, Fifties style. She bought hoola-hoops and poodle skirts and drove me and my best friend all over downtown Fort Worth in search of records — old 45’s. My best friend  and I fell into each other and giggled, while my mother danced around the … Read More

via Writing Under Pressure