Rosemary

“Who is that woman?” my father asks me, pointing to a framed photo on the wall. “She’s so beautiful it makes me cry.” The woman in the photo is my mother, Rosemary. They were married for 56 years before she passed away on a gentle spring morning. They slept in the same bed until the end, holding hands every night as they drifted off to sleep. My father has Alzheimer’s. Some days he doesn’t know who she is, others he speaks as if she’s still in the room, calling out over his shoulder, “Rose — ” as if memory is music only he can hear.