Outside my mother’s bedroom windowin the memory care unit, sparrowsand Carolina chickadees play hide-and-seekin holly bushes lit with winter’s red berries.Across the lawn, the low brick buildingof assisted living, a Coke machine against one wall,shaded by the patio roof. When I ask my motherwhat she sees, quick and sure, she says,Stripes. Not on the birds or bushes, not shadowscast across grass. Not on the drink machine,surely not the rows of brick, too far awayfor macular degeneration to allow her to see.I follow her eyes to a set of vents on the HVAC unitwedged between the hollies. Yes, stripes,I say, wanting to praise her.She knows colors and shapes but can’t rememberworrying about electric bills in winter.Doesn’t recall how I had to replace the heaterat her old home after she’d moved inwith my sister. Stopping by the empty house,I found it almost cold enough to freeze the pipes,called a friend who sold us a unit at cost,installed it on his day off for free. Becausehe’d spent more holidays at our house in high schoolthan his own, because he loved my mother,who can’t make associations anymore,from heaters to holidays and happy memories.From Coke machines to the drugstore where she boughtcherry sodas my sisters and I sucked through strawsas we read Superman comics, Mom chattingwith Mrs. Sidberry who worked at the lunch counter.These days, the Coke machine is just a red box,the stripes simply stripes, the birds not sparrowsand chickadees but little round things hopping about,no relation to the ones who do that thing they dothat some of us call flying.