Ma helps me sort glass when I’m mosaicing my mirror artwork suncatchers.

We sit across from each other for hours. When I come up for air, sometimes I see her focused like a laser on a pattern of her own. No adhesive.  She likes fleeting sparkle. She can start over and over.

Other times I look up and she’s gone, leaving only her shell, still and quiet. Eyes closed. Ma has hiked off into DementiaLand.

masarmreflectionipiccy (2)

I love the times I look up and see her covered in rainbow reflections from the glass on the table. She’s not aware. No one is but me. She perceives a change in my rhythm. She takes a  break, lights a cigarette, blows smoke among  mirrors and perversely, that’s when the magic ends.