Untitled, 2014

prologue

"Mom...I'm leaving, I'll be back late." 

"Hnng..." 

I walked to the bed and kissed my mom on the forehead. "Remember to take your medicine, okay?" I tapped the bedside table where the pillbox sat with a tall glass of water. "It's right here, okay?" 

Mom opened her eyes and smiled at me. She reached up and stroked my cheek with baby soft tenderness. "Guh." 

I looked at my watch. "Oh, oh, oh my, I'm gonna be so late!" I whined, waving my hands around frantically. 

My mom giggled at me, making me laugh as well. I loved making her laugh as much as possible, especially because of how she was. 

Mom was diagnosed with corticobasal degeneration about three years ago. It's a rare disorder that affects nerve cells and shrinks parts of the brain. It's kind of like dementia, but worse. It's usually found in people 50 years and older, but my mom was a "special case" as the doctor described it, as if being "special" was supposed to make it better. 

She started losing her ability to walk first, confining her to a wheelchair. She loved it though, wheeling herself around like she was in the Indy 500. Then, she slowly lost her speech. She tried her best to communicate, but I knew it was hard. She struggled with one syllable words, like "no", "yes", or "go". Mom soon became home bound, needing an aid whenever I wasn't around, which was pretty often unfortunately. The only thing she didn't lose was the use of her arms and hands. She was always so proud of herself when she pick something up or fed herself...

She swats me and waves toward the door, signaling me to hurry and go. I laugh again. "Okay, okay, I'm going! The aid is coming to stay with you, and Avery should be here too." She nods and waves goodbye. I blow her a kiss before closing her door and leaving the house. 

I pulled out a spiral notebook from my bag and flipped through the pages. Filled with lyrics, it was my only solace in dealing with Mom's disease. I turned an empty page and began to write as I walked. By the time I reached the train station, I had written a first verse and chorus. Twenty minutes later, the train arrived and I had a second verse and a bridge. After a nap on the train and another half hour, I had a third verse and an alternate chorus. 

But once I got to school, I realized: I still didn't have a title. 

Should I give it one? 

I gazed at my work, like a mother adoring her newborn child. 

I smiled, clicked my pen, and wrote at the top of the page: "Untitled, 2014"