An Orange in the Snow

Photography by Craig Brandt

It was my sister who lived in Rhode Island, where our parents lived, who was both compassionate and medically knowledgeable about our mother’s life with Alzheimer’s disease and the one who carried the responsibility. I lived further south and visited yearly, spending hours with my mother; but it was a “drop in the ocean” compared to the myriad of decisions and daily actions made and taken by my sister.

When my mother’s talking became a mixture of real objects but not in their accustomed places, I wrote down some of her phrases, but they’ve been lost in my moving. My younger daughter enlightened my understanding by referring to her grandmother’s words as seeing, but in her own world—there was still meaning but in a differently expressed, yet creative view.

For my mother, “an orange in the snow” is, I believe, one of her finest Alzheimer’s poems. Can’t you see newly fallen snow, feet high, and visible from above its depths, an orange, its lower curve partly settled, calling out to you, “Yes! I am an orange!”?

The metaphors in poetry and prose are from a writer’s real or imagined world. They can surprise. Delight. Deepen thought. But what I am writing about is how language can keep originating in Alzheimer’s, and if written down, at a later time, may offer up its meaning.

My realization is, “When those we know enter the progression of Alzheimer’s, there are “moments” to be aware of. What surprise may be called forth from a mind that has entered a new world?”