We're so implicated, yet we can't control anything. How can we ever feel separate from the world, when our nature is the world? So I think about the vast world, the vastness, the vastation, and I think about how to talk to mom, and not try to assist her memory. It feels natural to try to help, but we're in process, and our memory changes, and leaves, like people. We carry our own memory, and let it go when it will go. I think I need to just listen to her memory change, and not try to fill in the blanks. Memory is a story we tell others and ourselves, memory is life and life is change, and mom is changed, and still here.