Slipping Away

She stood patiently in line, but her strained posture clearly showed her fatigue. She was sharply dressed in a starched, long-sleeve white blouse, black skirt and heels, all of which were out of place in both the coffeehouse and the 95-degree weather outside. She was on her way home from church, and in her regular routine was picking up a coffee, a latte and two bagels. Mom was pretty sophisticated on the subject of coffee, knowing about espresso long before anyone else she knew, and now their weekly coffees were about all they had left.

Mom's first few sips of her weekly latte would bring about one of her increasingly rare moments of lucidity. The ravages of Alzheimer's would momentarily ebb, and once again aware of things, she would look at her dressed-up Elizabeth with a look of chagrin, recognizing that her daughter still clung to the faith that she herself had abandoned long ago.

"That's fine, as long as it works for you," Mom would say.

"There's still time, Mom," Elizabeth would reply. "It's not too late for you."

"Everything's too late for me now," was her pensive reply. "But I'm okay with that, really." A pause, and then the gentlest of sighs. "It's time."