I used to dread the moment near the end of a visit with my Gram (who had Alzheimer’s) when she’d perk up from a semi-stupor in which she no longer recognized me: “Where’s my purse? Have we paid yet? Let’s go home.” Briefly, she sounded almost like her jolly old self.
No matter how long I was there, or what we did, it ended like a perpetual restaurant outing. Except of course that she lived at this “restaurant.”