Mum

As her memories dwindle, sometimes she comes to a dead end, and stops in confusion, standing in the living room, wondering what comes next.  Sometimes, by contrast, she pursues an unknown quarry with surprising over-confidence, like the time she peeled off and disappeared into the chemists, and later emerged with a prescription everyone had told her would not be ready yet.  But she's happiest, I think, when she's absorbed in the unvarying routine of afternoon walks - the loop that takes in the caravan park and puppet theatre, the there-and-back to the Burn Braes - resting now and again on one of the town benches, where she tells me how the weather and the seasons change the colours, shapes and sounds of things.