Imperfect Truth(24)

Ava Readsalot: Brunette? Oh, really? hmm, sounds familiar, any more details? LMAO.

Ryder Matthews: Nope that’s it, oh, and she is obnoxious.

Ava Readsalot: Hey!!! I’m not obnoxious!

Ryder Matthews: What makes you think she’s you?

Ava Readsalot: Whatever, you’re rude

Ryder Matthews: Hahaha



I can't help but laugh out loud.



Ryder Matthews: No actually, I don’t base any of my characters on one person, more a culmination of many. There’s always some truth in all of them.

Ava Readsalot: So…

Ryder Matthews: Yes?

Ava Readsalot: Um, when do I get to see you again?

Ryder Matthews: When do you want to see me?

Ava Readsalot: As soon as possible.

Ryder Matthews: I’m sure we can work something out.

Ryder Matthews: What are you doing today?



Relief floods me as I realize he is not put off by my forwardness. I wish I could see him, but I think its best that I don’t today, deciding instead today is the ideal day to see my mother. Then I will run errands…alone.



Ava Readsalot: I actually think I’m going to see my mom.

Ryder Matthews: That’s nice ☺

Ava Readsalot: Not really :- (

Ryder Matthews: Want to talk about it?

Ava Readsalot: Yeah but not today, I was sad this morning, but you make me happy. Today is a good day to see her.

Ryder Matthews: Well, know I’m always at your disposal. I’m always here to listen

Ava Readsalot: Thank you. Hearing that…well, it means a lot to me. Your friendship means more to me than you’ll ever know.

Ryder Matthews: Same, Ava. Same

Ava Readsalot: Ok I’m going to run xoxo





I THROW ON SOME clothes and make my way outside. My mother lives in an apartment within walking distance of me. That was one of my stipulations when Lenore was picking out where we were to live. Her building sits on the corner of 28th and Lexington. It’s approximately an eight-block walk to her apartment…give or take an avenue. But on this beautiful spring day, it’s invigorating.

I wave to her doorman as I approach the building and see him through the giant glass windows of the high rise she lives in. I give him a friendly nod, and his lips bend slightly in a somber fashion. I enter the elevator and start my climb to the 16th floor. Letting myself in, I see my mother, sitting in her favorite chair, staring out the window. She doesn’t turn to me as I make my approach. She just stares blankly into the abyss.

“Hi, Mom.” She says nothing as usual. Tara, the home care aid, chooses that moment to walk into the room.

“Morning, Mrs. Harrison.”

“Morning, Tara. How is she today?”

“She’s okay. A little moody,” Tara’s voice is laced with apology and a little bit of sadness. Tara has worked for my mother from the beginning. She actually knew my mom before this. She worked in the hospital with my mom before she left to work as her personal nurse.

I started to notice the signs of memory loss when my mom was around fifty-five years old. But it wasn’t the little things that she forgot that made me concerned. In the beginning it wasn’t anything too noticeable, rather small things that I had just recently told her. This stands out to me now, and I should have been more aware. I should have known.

My mother was a brilliant woman. She was beautiful and vivacious, and when I was younger, a force to be reckoned with. She was always said to be smart beyond her years but always young at heart. She was, and is, my role model. Although she never had to work, she did so because she received great joy from helping people. And when she followed her dream and became a doctor, she lived with happiness in her heart.

I didn’t even take notice or wonder when she had forgotten how to make the family recipe for banana bread or when she couldn’t figure out how to use the DVR. Nope, not even then. Denial…It’s a funny thing.

The moment I realized, the moment that made me finally take notice and know something was truly wrong, was when she no longer enjoyed work. When she started to withdraw from being near her patients, that’s when I knew.

I used to visit often, but recently my visits have become fewer in her declining years. It has become too painful. I now find myself going to her on a day where I need her, where I need the comfort of my mom. Today is one of those days.

I take a seat in the beige, wingback chair that sits in the corner of her living room adjacent to hers. I place my hand on her hers, seeking her warmth, her comfort. She twitches and shakes off my hand placing her arm in the center of her lap, away from my touch. My eyesight blurs as tears pool. I blink them away, and one rolls down my cheek. “Mom, it’s me Ava.” The strength I’m trying to hold onto cracks as I openly sob.