The Day Mama Forgot My Name

Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash

I knew something was off when she called me Gloria. My mama ain’t never liked that name. Said it sounded like a woman who smoked Kools and stole tips off diner tables.

But that morning, she looked me dead in the eye, scrunched her face like she was thinking real hard, and said:

“Gloria, baby, go get me my blue pocketbook.”

There was no Gloria in the family.

At first, we laughed it off. Said it was just a “senior moment” and blamed it on her sweet tooth and the way she’d started watching those mystery movies late at night.

But then she forgot the stove was on. Then she started hiding her house keys in the freezer. And then one day, she looked at me while I was brushing her hair and whispered:

“Now who do you belong to?”

Mama was the kind of woman who used to remember everything — birthdays, secret family recipes, who owed who $27 and a slice of sweet potato pie.

She raised us without ever raising her voice.

But slowly, piece by piece, the sharpness left her. And I had to become the keeper of her memories.

Some days she knew me, clear as sunshine. She’d say, “You still wearing your hair like that? Lord, come here.” Other days, I was the nurse. Or a church friend. Or Gloria again.

I started wearing her favorite perfume and humming her favorite hymn — Just in case those were the threads that held us together.

One afternoon, while I was folding her cardigans, she grabbed my hand and said:

“I don’t know who you are, but I know you love me. I can feel it.”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Because even if she forgot everything else, she never forgot how love felt.

We don’t talk about what it’s like to grieve somebody who’s still breathing. To say goodbye over and over. To hold their hand tighter hoping it’ll hold the pieces in place.

But if you’re going through it — You are not alone. And love? Love remembers, even when memory fades.