Adam is likely the only person on the planet who knows my mom at least as well as I do, and likely better in some ways. As I mentioned before, we are the only two remaining people who, together, have context for the vast majority of her life.
Adam and I talked further Friday morning, before his departure. He is of the opinion that mom’s is desperate to return to the Island, to go home to times that not only no longer exist, but haven’t for years. She’s hankering for, and who wouldn’t, the hay days when she and my father moved and shook in a companionable social circle of intellects, artists, writers, and environmentalists. That perhaps a part of why she’s so stuck on the idea of a car and driving, dementia aside, isn’t simply because she can’t remember those things don’t exist any longer, but that in her Island dream she’s returning to, those things still do exist.
The furniture showing up in mom’s apartment shatters her dream, and rather than the furniture bringing her comfort and joy, like old well patinated friends, it reminders her every time she walks into her apartment that some sort of betrayal has occurred, and she is enraged again, and likely somewhere deep inside understands she isn’t going home.
Adam expressed this far more eloquently than I can retell, but this gets the point and feeling across.