There's somebody standing in the corner of my room. That's what she told me most days and as normal, I ignored her. I presumed she was talking about her reflection who she believed another person, a friend. Dementia steals the life force. She was no longer the woman I knew anymore, just a small petulant child to take care of. One that could look sweet and innocent but could take a knife to me if she fancied. She spent all day in her bedroom talking to the mirror, packing and unpacking strange old suitcases, oblivious to the fact she was in her own house. Covering herself in layers upon layers of clothing yet still managing to look smart with a nice brooch and matching earrings, or a silk scarf.
One day I saw the figure in the corner of the room. It was my dad. I wept. He had been dead for three years. He said he had come to take her home.
There's somebody standing in the corner of my room.