Under the Weeping Willow
Jenny Knipfer
Top 10 Best Quotes
“Why does she have to slowly lose herself until there’s nothing left? What cruel twist of fate handed Mom this? I imagine a large emery file in her brain, slowly grating away at her memories. The words of Mom’s written prayer in ’77 come back to me, ‘Whatever unknown path is ahead, I pray that you will walk it with me.”
“Thinking of that summer makes me remember the one before. I don’t recall what I had for lunch or what I watched on TV this afternoon, but I remember the day I tried to free myself from my sorrows under the weeping willow and the following summer among the flowers. Why is this so fresh and real of late? I don’t know. Maybe something I learned during that time will help prepare me for this journey into forgetfulness—the path I’m forced to walk on. Time is stealing my memories.”
“She was afraid. Robin knew that. Who wouldn’t be? But she had forgotten that God understood her fear and had compassion for her weakness. She would have to choose to place her trust in someone larger than her fear over Willis being killed. “Help me, God,” she prayed. Robin bowed her head to her knees and poured out her fear to someone who could beat it for her.”
“She leaned her head against his shoulder, hoping to remember his scent of freshly mown hay, bay rum, and hard work. He caressed the back of her neck. “It won’t be long,” he comforted her. They were empty words, which didn’t have a true, sure ring to them but sparked hope all the same. “Take care of our little one,” he whispered in her ear. Robin took a deep breath, steeling herself to be strong. She tipped up her head. “I will.” Willis crushed a kiss to her lips. Robin didn’t care what any of them thought. The train whistle blew, and Willis released her. A chill breeze blew over the platform and made Robin tug her indigo-blue, wool sweater tighter around her expanding middle.”
“One of the things Mom’s journey with dementia has taught me is this: Life is in the small things, like the word “Amen”—a simple agreement, a yes to words prayed, and a statement claiming the promises of God. I’ve cried and begged for Mom not to have to go through this valley of loss, but it has come regardless. Now my one plea is that—in all that she has or will lose—she will never lose the love of God and her family. That is a truth worth saying “Amen” to.”
“My heart has been in turmoil for years over Mom’s decline into dementia, but reading her words and hearing first-hand how she struggled makes my heart ache for her. I wish I could have eased her fears, helped her more than I did. Mostly, at the beginning, before I knew what was going on, I was frustrated with her. Now I understand, and I’m crying for her. Not myself for a change.”
“My day has just gotten brighter. It should bother me—the fact that I must feed my mother like a toddler, but I’m determined to celebrate the things she can still do and no longer grieve so hard over what she can’t. I don’t care as much anymore if she can’t remember who we are, or even who she is, as long as she’s getting some enjoyment out of life. That’s what matters. We can do the remembering for her.”
“Maybe our separation early on is why Enid and I hardly ever seem to understand one another. Rare moments sparkle like sunspots, and I can say, “She’s my daughter.” However, most of our interactions leave me wondering where she came from.”
“Maybe I’m going crazy, but I swore I’d never go there again. I see the edge of the pond and feel the dangling willow branches tangle in my hair as if it were yesterday. The water pulls at me like Velcro, clinging, drawing me in. Why can I remember that from so many years ago and not where I put the bread today? I know one thing: They will not put me in an asylum for the mentally deranged. Not again.”
“Is there anything worse than not to be known for who you are? Maybe not knowing who you are.”
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Book Keywords:
mothers-and-daughters, war, caregivers, love, diaries, asylum, depression, prayer, fear, dementia, husband-and-wife-relationship, family-drama, husband-and-wife, alzheimer-s, diary-entry
