Essay on Solitude

She turned 80 last September, lost my father 3 years ago, and yet she is not over his departure. We live very close –almost together– we share days and evenings but, in a way, I know she feels deeply lonely, abandoned; lost and waiting. Her time is full of hopelessness, of silence, of turning inwards, of searching in memory for those earlier moments that guide and define us. Portraying my mother's private life has been an exercise for both of us, a way of coping with grief while keeping each other company; of recognizing that we are not alone, that the undeniable loss of time affects us all. It is a strategy not to lose the memories and embrace her inexorable withdrawal.