"First you cut the onion in large pieces," she dictates and he writes it down in a notebook ... She says everything in a neutral tone; he writes in big, clear lettering. Both try to tint the situation of normality.
"While the onion pieces are being fried, burn the little feathers off the chicken on the flame ... " she pauses slightly. He continues to note down every word she pronounces and he pauses a little too, choked by sadness. "You add the chicken pieces, fry them on all sides till lightly brown, pour on the beer, and let it cook slowly on gentle fire ... "She paused again, this time for a long while.
"For how long?" he asked. She shrugged her shoulders seemingly irritated. "That's it. It's done", she answered impatiently. The husband obeyed, but thought: "No, not yet surely."
There's not the slightest emotion in the kitchen, just like other days recently when they did dictation and jolting down notes. No expression at all on her face and he, just sadness and resignation. There's no more discussions, confessions, not even occasional arguments like before; nothing at all accompanying this much loved dish she had been cooking for her family for 30 years. Around them used to be children who had since stopped being children - now they claim this favourite dish when they come round with the grandchildren to visit on Sundays. But no more toasting at the meal table, nor cheerful, lengthy and lazy chitchats after the meal either; even the children had been warned not to run around making too much noise, so now they behave as if they were being punished for having done nothing to deserve it; quiet, and bored.
The doctors had said Alzheimer develops slowly, but steadily, and she had decided, while still able to think more or less logically, to make an inventory of her life. He helps putting down all she wants to say, writing, noting, reminding if she falters a bit, quietly and inwardly crying. He sought often to understand and interpret her looks into words to record her true and inner thoughts, but finding it harder and harder each day ... He is himself lost.
Tags: fictionstory, alzheimer
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