unt Bella sat in her room, gazing out the broad plate glass window. The setting sun outlined her upper body and shone through the white wisps of hair pulled back on her head.

"Aunt Bella," I said, feeling as uncomfortable as always. She didn’t move, but stared at the green lawn below. "Aunt Bella," I repeated, crossing to her. "Here, Aunt Bella." I handed her the flowers I’d brought, the long stalks bearing the brightest of reds, the blooms intense and passionate.

She turned, looked quizzically at the bouquet, and took it hesitantly. Then she looked at me.

"Why thank you, Miss," she said. She contemplated the flowers while I stood at attention, the elevator in my gut plunging to bottom as it did each Sunday. "Miss," she said, raising her head to me, "would you please find a vase for these flowers? Someone gave them to me, but I really do think they need water."

"Yes, ma’am," I said, and headed for the little cupboard over the sink where the vase was kept. Running the water, I watched her rise and walk toward me, flowers in hand.

"Oh, hello," she said when she reached me.

"Hello, Aunt Bella," I replied. "How are you, dear?" She looked at me for a long moment.

"Yes," she said. "I’m Mrs. Bella Day. Do I know you?" She was cognizant enough, twenty-three months after diagnosis, to realize she was missing something, that I might be someone she knew. She hadn’t yet lost her sense of graciousness, of courtesy, and even now she tried to put me at ease.

"Yes, Aunt Bella," I said, feeling hurt despite my understanding. "You are my aunt. I’m your niece. Sonja. I’m Sonja." I reached for her arm, and caressed it. She allowed that, moving closer for a better look. We stood for a moment, eyes engaged. I wanted to feel the moments, now lost, when such a look would have been profound. "Sonja?" she said. "Yes," I replied, and the flutter of hope rose inside me. Then she looked away.

"Oh," she said, "how ‘bout that." She chuckled and turned back to the chair.

I finished filling the vase and followed her back to the window. The sill was wide and low. I placed the vase in its center, and sat down beside it. I watched the come-and-go of little social workers, nurses, and attendants on the walkway far below, and then observed my aunt for a moment. Aunt Bella’s face was still sweet, well-formed, despite the soft fine lines that wove through it. Her white hair, never a strand of yellow in it, was baby soft, softer even than in her younger days. She still insisted on wearing cardigans, always in pastel colors, and the "sensible" shoes she used to buy for herself at Stratt’s. Now I bought them for her, and the nursing assistants tied them each day.

"Auntie, it’s time for our walk through the memory box." I rose and went to the dresser.

On top was the large mahogany box Pappy had bought for her sixteenth birthday. It used to hold her handkerchiefs, embroidered, lacey, and monogrammed, before the illness set in. She’d asked me to convert it to a "memory box" as soon as she’d been able to accept the fact of the Alzheimer’s. "I want to hold on as long as I can," she’d told me. I don’t know how much it had helped, but it hadn’t helped lately.

I brought the box back to the window sill and sat down. Opening it, I took out the photo of Uncle Bill. He was large, a great man. The photo was her favorite, taken shortly after their marriage. He was strong jawed, smiling, the brown fedora at an angle, the cigar Bogie-like in his mouth.

"Who’s this, Aunt Bella?" I asked.

She looked at the photo and smiled. "Oh, isn’t he a nice one," she said. "Is this your beau?" She patted my hand. "I certainly would not let that one go, dear. Does your mother like him?" She smiled at me. I waited for a moment, then said, "Yes, she does, Auntie. Very much." I leaned over and kissed her. Then I closed the box.

I didn’t have the heart for any more. I put the box back into place on the dresser.

Then I came back and sat with her, watching the sky, and the lawn, and the people way down on the ground until the sun vanished, and nothing else was visible.

Copyright © 2000 M. Jane Hill