A few years back I took a small job as a companion for an elderly woman, She happened to be my aunt, and had been very generous to my family over the decades. Her reputation included feistiness, and a tendency to speak her mind without editing. When I was growing up I knew it was best not to broach certain subjects, and to agree quickly. But for some reason these tactics failed me as I tried to assist her in her twilight years. She became more outspoken about the fact that she hated me. I did my best to turn the other cheek but I was running out of cheeks. 

 

Then she fired me. 

 

I confess to holding on to something of a grudge. Which is ridiculous. Me, who still has the faculties of driving a car and writing my own checks and the ability to run across a field- not that I do that much- should feel pompous toward a woman in her nineties who can no longer remember her grandchildren's names? Granted she has a lot of them. 

 

But last week the coordinator of her services asked me to try again.

 

"She is softening," she promised. Still I was tentative. When I signed in at the desk of her residential facility the manager spoke to me. 

 

"Don't worry." How had he read my thoughts? I stepped into her apartment ready to back out quickly.

 

"Who's that?" she asked of her caregiver. 

 

"This is Lori. You like her." I held my breath. She smiled. 

 

We went for a drive, which is something she enjoys. Well, enjoy is a strong word for someone who is disappointed to wake up in the morning. We chatted about the frosting of snow, and the buildings we passed. She fiddled with her visor, turning it more ways than I would have thought possible. I realized that for a woman with so little in her control, the chance to wiggle it meant autonomy. It reminded me of sitting beside a toddler who was strapped in for dear life as we crossed the country and the only things he could do for hours on end was to draw on the door, smash crackers against his car seat and cover his legs with band aids. 

 

"This is the Mitchell Performing Arts Center." I assumed the role of tour guide. "It was built by Mimi Mitchell. She was your cousin."

 

"She still is!!" she barked. So she still has some zest left.

 

"You are right!" 

 

We drove by a Quaker church that I have sometimes visited. I mentioned as much.

 

"Why would anyone go to any church but the Cathedral?" she snapped. 

 

"I mean when they offered talks not on Sundays," I fibbed. 

 

This chapter of our relationship is only beginning. She may wake up to her old sentiments and throw me out. But for now she has forgotten that she hated me. How nice that there are things we can let go of. Things we never really needed to begin with.