It is me, Michael.’ They sit around the wall, slumped in chairs. Some with baby bibs to catch the dribble, others in outsized carpet slippers, for they have nowhere to go. A big television, the size of a sideboard, shows an afternoon game show. Lights flash on the screen as buttons are pressed by excited contestants. Around the room heads nod in and out of sleep, full of wisdom and hundreds of years of life, waiting for a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit. I sit opposite the woman who is my mother. Her hair, long whitened by the twist of her mind, is now yellowed by surrender. I hold her hand. It is as cold and fragile as the body of a dead bird. She responds to the touch, looking up and through me as if I am made from glass. A nurse appears and tells us we can go into the garden if we wish. ‘That’ll be nice,’ I say to her, looking at my mother. ‘Let’s go into the garden, where we can talk better.’ She doesn’t seem to understand, so the nurse eases her up by her elbow.
