The Many Depressions of Life One of my grandmothers had dementia toward the end. A ten-year old end. My other grandmother who is still alive has schizophrenia. Not good to have so much mental illness in your family DNA. I don’t bring that shit up on dates. I went to meet the dementia one because this time, she was way too close to the end. She didn’t recognize me at all, nor my father and worse yet she wasn’t herself anymore, either. Everything that made her my grandmother was no longer there. We could as well be two strangers communicating through two different languages while suffering from different mental illnesses. Five months before she was diagnosed they’d flown her to the USA for a very expensive eye laser therapy. This old husk of a woman could see as well as a cyborg. “ What a waste” I had told the room after I’ve given up getting through to her “ such a waste of money just for her to turn Ike this now.” My relatives has scolded my thinking. My father had put both his hands in his pants pockets and said: As much as good timing can help bad timing can harm. They scolded him, too. They didn’t understand that my fathers pants pockets were once full of money and relief but were now empty. My relatives hadn’t counted coins on the palms of their hands anxious that they’re adequate for whatever sad purchase you might need to make in decades. I never saw that old lady again. I got a picture some months later of my father leaning over the open casket of his mother and planting a kiss on her forehead. She looked peaceful. Done with it all. The sadness of my father’s face baffled me. He always had a great disdain for his mother, for her intellect or lack thereof and the fact that she never helped him once in an essential way, or at least that’s what he maintained. “Put the smartest man in the world To live with the dumbest person of the world and I guarantee you the dumb one will win.” Addressed to his mother for when they lived together. But family is family. I guess. There’s a biological factor in the stubborn love of a relative you would never befriend in your life. That old lady was once my grandmother washed my baby butt tought me how to take a dumb in a Turkish toilet. Kissed my tiny weenie when we were done washing and always told me that I’ll become a lover boy. That I would see, some day. What can you say? Plenty of reasons to get depressed while in the joy ride no matter the joy— the fleeting joy. It’s a game of turns. In time, I’ll be leaning over my dead father thinking of all the time we wasted not talking about art or women or anything at all and I’ll wipe my tears over his forehead and soon enough it’ll be my time to be weeped over and who knows I might finally look peaceful then.