The other day I took an umbrella with me when I went to spend time with my aunt. It protected me from the relentless rain. I might have brought it inside had I known there would be a flurry of pelting words from her.

That is the shield I put up when she hails down with pinging comments.
I went into another room to iron dresses that didn't need it, just to increase the distance between us. But I guess being feisty alone is unsatisfying because she lugged her walker across the apartment to continue.

I suggested we go for a drive which was agreeable. Fortunately short term memory loss means that grudges don't linger.

The scenery was pleasant enough, a respite from the monotony of her own four walls. We chatted about the fields and what grew there last summer. We had the same conversation last week but with Alzheimer's everything is new.

After lunch a woman down the hall came to say hello. My aunt asked if she would like to look at her Christmas cards. It seemed an odd offer to me. Who would want to read someone else's mail? Then I saw it for the gesture it was. Even though my aunt has the resources to be generous, and certainly has a history of being so, in her present state she probably feels empty handed. 

I had a flash back to a time when my mother lived with us, and although she did not have dementia, she could barely stand without help. I was dressed to go to a wedding and was checking on her before I whooshed out the door, a ribboned gift under my arm. 

"Here, give them this," she blurted out. My mother handed me a bouquet of flowers that I had brought her a week ago. They looked pathetic. 

"Thanks, Mom," I stammered, and left them in my own living room out of sight. 

It is perhaps an instinct that is deeply embedded in the human spirit. To give. Yet much of the time we feel like what we have to offer is as ordinary as last week's flowers, and reread cards. Who would want us? 

Yet as any parent who has been handed a dandelion from her three year old knows, something much sweeter than blossoms erupts in the presence of benevolence. 

In the end, we are all empty handed.