The New York Times: Did I Try Hard Enough to Understand My Mother?
My mother often asked me, “Am I on a ship?”
“No, Mum, you’re not,” I’d assure her. “You’re high on dry land.”
More and more, though, her dementia created the illusion that she was on a ship, unmoored, her illness cleaving a distance between us. I knew in time that she would fall off the edge of the horizon.