The Dementia Ward was even more depressing at Christmas. Scattered tinsel and a

 plastic tree fooled no one. This was God’s waiting room. I had hoped my

sister would accompany me to visit mum. Alison had better things to do. Like partying.

      “Mum’s gaga” she said. “She wouldn’t know either of us from

      Attila the Hun. A total waste of time.”

The tiny bed-ridden figure was physically present, but vague and distracted. Mum had  

clumsily grasped the bunch of flowers and was trying to eat them. I removed them and laid

them on her locker beside the unpulled Christmas cracker.

She glared reproachfully. Tears trickled down deep facial furrows towards the trembling chin.

How to connect? Inspiration. I opened my cell phone and searched. Success! Billy Connolly’s

raucous voice belted out the “Welly Boot Song”. The emaciated old lady beamed and started

to sway from side to side. Her lips were moving soundlessly. She was trying to sing along.

When the song finished she beckoned me closer. I could just about make out her whispered

words.

      “Thank you, Alison. You’ve always been my favourite.”

I rose and kissed her on the forehead.

      “Happy Christmas, mum”, choking back the uninvited tears.