Two Who Will Never Be Parted

Ten years are about to pass since my mother with dementia entered a group home. I felt like I had aged more than my mother, who remained beautiful, physically strong, and the picture of health even in her later years. I have my own illnesses, and eventually, I will lose my sight.I felt.

Wanting to see her as much as I could before that happened, I tried arranging a visit and an outing. When I asked,
“Where would you like to go, Mom?”
she replied,
“How about your father’s grave?”
She suggested somewhere other than our dilapidated family home and gave me a wide grin.

Looking back, my late father and mother were always in a world of their own; they were always together when they went out. It made me, their daughter, feel that happiness is simply a life that continues without the need for grand gestures.
However, the moment they opened their mouths, they would list each other's faults. I remember a time they had a huge fight, and my mother raised her voice in the living room, saying,
“In my next life, I’m going to marry someone else!”

My mother’s dementia, which she hid so well, gradually progressed after my father passed away. Eventually, she began wandering, and when it became too much for our family to handle, we sought help and ended up at the group home.
Perhaps it was the location, or perhaps she was finally freed from the anxiety of living alone, but she has seemed much calmer ever since.

I am deeply grateful to the staff who look after my mother every day, making it possible for us to meet like this.
At first, I was plagued by guilt, feeling as though I had abandoned a beloved parent, but now, when we go out and she says,
“Well, I’m off,”
as she leaves the facility, I have finally come to accept that this is her home.

“Mom, why did you marry Dad?”
With the sound of the turn signal echoing in the car, I decided to ask her a question I’d had for years.
“I’ve forgotten.”
“I bet it was an arranged marriage, wasn't it?”
There was a strange pause, and my white-haired mother, reflected in the rearview mirror, shifted her gaze outside. A bullseye.

A cemetery on a hill. I’m sure my father is looking down on the town, rejoicing innocently like a child who has come to play without knowing why.
“Mom, hold onto me...”
When I opened the door and spoke to her, she slipped past me as if to say I was in the way.
She walked briskly on her own, and when she arrived at the place where my father sleeps without a moment's hesitation, she turned to me with a smile.

“Dad looks like he’s doing well.”
“But he’s already dead.”
Honestly, it had been a long time since I’d visited the grave, and I never expected Mom to remember the exact location.
(He is so loved; Dad is a lucky man.)
The incense smoke stung my eyes today. I never want to forget the sight of my mother’s small back as she quietly pressed her hands together in prayer.

“Until death do us part”—the words from my own wedding vows crossed my mind.
As I finished the visit and drove toward the Japanese restaurant my father loved so much, my mother murmured, “He was a wonderful man,” and I couldn't stop the tears as I gripped the steering wheel.

I simply, truly, pray that the two of them will be reunited in the next life.