Thinking about my Mema tonight. Earlier this evening I watched her sleep like a baby and was reminded of the sweet lullabies she would hum as she rocked me in her velour chair. The fact that I remember her rocking me is probably evidence that I was too old to be rocked. But grandmothers don't care about things like that. Mema is in the hosipital tonight. She is sick. She won't eat. She won't drink. She won't speak. Mema has dementia, and she doesn't know who I am, but she smiled when I kissed her forehead goodbye, and I bet she would smile if she heard this song.