After a day at the Whitney Museum seeing Jennifer Packer’s color-saturated paintings, my niece and I wended our way in the cold to 23 Cornelia Street, where Taylor Swift briefly lived, so I could take a picture of Eva in front of this landmark.

“And I hope I never lose you…” we sang.

Later, my mother shit on herself at Menorah Village Memory Care Center. She was too weak to get to her bathroom. The staff found her on the floor by her bed, lashing out with fists and calling anyone who tried to help her “bitch.” She’s eighty-five pounds now: I picked her up and led her to the shower, cleaned her body, put lotion on it, combed her hair, assured her that my dead dad was waiting at home.

The Body Has Memory. Packer, 2018

“Four.” My mother answers when asked how many children she has.

There are three of us: me and my two brothers. This isn’t the first time my mother has referred to another child. When I ask her about it, she answers: “Oh, I said that?”

She forgets many things but what she remembers is always correct.

The Mind is its Own Place. Packer, 2020

We are sitting around a table in the dining room; my mother and I and three other residents.

“You look happy,” my mother tells me.

“I am happy! I’m with you!”

She asks each of her lunch companions if they are happy. Frank says yes. Barbara wishes the food were better. Carolyn wants me to get her a cookie.

“And what about you?” I ask.

“Get real, Rebecca. Can anyone truly be happy in a place like this?”

A Lesson in Longing. Packer, 2019

My mother has a suitor. As she and I are talking, he creeps up slowly. His foot in a large black shoe draws him and his wheelchair closer to us.

With great effort, he raises his hand and points at my mother.

“I’m going to take you with me.”

“You’ve got to get my daughter’s permission first.”

“Where are you going to take her?”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought about that.”

He wheels himself backward away from us.

“That’s my buddy,” my mom says with a sly smile.

The Eye is Not Satisfied with Seeing. Packer, 2022

“Your father went out golfing with the other men.”

It is February and snowing.

“Did you know that whores come into the lobby? I saw them with my own eyes!”

“That sounds strange.”

“Have you seen your father?”

“He’s at home, Mom. You’re here so you can get some rest without having to take care of him.”

“No, no, he sleeps right here.” She points at the indentation her head has made on the blood-stained pillow.

“…That’s the kind of heartbreak time could never mend” we sang.

I bring my mother the catalogue from Jennifer Packer’s show so she can see the vibrant reds, purples, greens and yellows. She thinks a flower is a mailbox and a man’s shoe a dog.

“Can I live with you in New York when I am better?”

I tell my mother I would love nothing more.

“Just two single ladies in the city!”

For now, we are able to laugh.