Mrs. Alfaro's Box of Memories

Even as she progresses deeper into the Forgetting Condition, Mrs. Alfaro has this uncanny ability to pull items out of her purse that can send you on the most amazing trips without having to take any drugs.

A few years ago, we were in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s and a wild pack of prom ready teenagers were piling out of a rented limousine. We both stared at them, and I asked my mother what she remembered of High School. Without missing a beat, she dug into her purse and pulled out her Delano High School diploma of 1955!

Had Mrs. Alfaro been waiting years for me to ask this very question? I don’t think so, but the rotation of memorabilia in her purse finally found its moment.

The purse is sometimes heavy and filled with Mrs. Alfaro’s unique collection of writing pens, oversize and often with animal heads, along with some clearly choice historical items.

Lately, she has been carrying pictures.

When we sit at home in her room, I look over and she has photos in small groupings of up to ten pics. She will put a few in her purse, some in her wallet, and some she leaves on her nightstand.

Even more interesting is the way she will sit with a photo and just stare at it. Calm, still and taking in its details, remembering a relative or an event. Sometimes, she will dig into her drawer for her magnifying glass to look at something in the background.

This week, she handed me my old Boy Scout card, which I noticed had my last name misspelled. Was I even a Boy Scout?

She also handed me a picture of myself as a child, standing next to my step-grandfather in Tijuana, Baja California, a magical place I spent much time in, usually at soccer fields watching games.

A few weeks ago, my whole family went to my nemesis restaurant, Benihana, to celebrate my sister’s birthday. I don’t enjoy this place, but we go so rarely that I muster up the tolerance for another performance of chef cooking tricks that include the classic repertoire of beating fried rice heart, cracked egg toss, and stacked onion volcano.

At the end they took a picture of the family and gave it to us in a paper frame. I handed it over to Mrs. Alfaro who stared at the photo for the longest time, and then, in one assured move, pulled out a picture of my brother in his teens, holding the Benihana photo and a thirty-five-year-old photo next to it, and simply said, “Before and after…” Our ‘Murder She Wrote’ Saturday nights must be paying off.

On Saturday morning, I got up very early to make the trek across counties and spend the day with Mrs. Alfaro.

I was giving my sister, primary caretaker, some time away, and letting the rest of the family not have to deal with keeping Mrs. Alfaro busy.

By the time I arrived in Orange County a little before nine in the morning, Mrs. Alfaro was up, dressed, and sitting on the side of her bed waiting for the action to happen. “Where are we going?” she asks me in Spanish.

For some reason, even though she speaks perfect English, she seems to only communicate in Spanish now. In the past year I have noticed how much language has left her.

Sometimes, when we are alone in the car together, she will point to something and say, “What’s that called again?” and I will say, “Oh, that’s a car wash” or “That’s a signal light” and she will nod her head calmly and affirmatively, “Yes, yes, that’s right.”

I get her teeth brushed and ready to meet her dentist on this Saturday morning. I am carrying her lower dentures in a little pink plastic box. Mrs. Alfaro keeps taking them off, not used to this expensive newly reconstructed lower set that the family’s pack of dogs thought were a toy and mangled.

I look at Mrs. Alfaro like she once looked at me as a kid and I say, “That’s over a thousand dollars’ worth of teeth you got in there, old lady. Trust me, you’re going to get used to wearing these expensive dentures if it’s the last thing you do.” Mrs. Alfaro just laughs and says in Spanish, “Relax, you’ll get a heart attack.”

Language leaves but it also arrives in strange places.

We get to the dentist in a strip mall on Beach and Malvern in Buena Park. Mrs. Alfaro’s neighborhood is now officially known as Little Korea, the largest population of Koreans in the United States, more than even my own neighborhood in Los Angeles, Koreatown.

The strip mall is all Asian with a chicken wing place, boba shop and a small bank. When we enter the dental office, I have Mrs. Alfaro in a wheelchair so she doesn’t run off. The doctor enters and wheels her to a back room. I can hear Mrs. Alfaro speaking English, “So, what is this office?” The doctor tells her she is her dentist, and I hear Mrs. Alfaro say, “You don’t cut hair, do you? That’s what I really need.” The doctor laughs and says, “No, no hair, just teeth.”

Afterward we meet my larger-than-life family at the small municipal Fullerton airport, thinking the kids would enjoy a meal in the café while small planes fly in and out. Well, every family in Fullerton must have thought the same thing because it’s full. The men in my clan are on a ridiculous ‘carnivore’ diet consisting of just meat and I suggest Sizzler, which no one has been to in over twenty years. Except Mrs. Alfaro and I, who show everyone the ropes. Fruit, cubes of Jello, chicken nuggets, and Mrs. Alfaro is happily eating.

I am spending twelve hours with Mrs. Alfaro, determined to tire her out, so I get her back in the wheelchair for a visit to the Brea mall and the Apple store. I need a new computer desperately. I have taken to copying the ‘M’, ‘X’ and ‘?’ keys because they don’t work anymore, so I paste them in when I type. I have become remarkably adept at doing this, but it's ridiculous that I am.

The Brea mall is large and overrun on a Saturday. I can’t find the elevators, which I find out are hidden near the restrooms, so I am getting a workout pushing Mrs. Alfaro. When we finally arrive at the Apple store, I am a sweaty mess. I regulate my breath and try to match the ‘chill’ of the cube. The Apple store is white, sparse and lean in its look. Mrs. Alfaro says, “Where are we, heaven?” I tell her we are in hell, at the mall.

Having your impatient aged forgetful mother in wheelchair tow is a great motivator towards the quick sale. Christina, my Apple salesperson, asks what I am looking for and I tell her I’ve done the research and point out exactly what I want. No sales pitch narratives or upsells. Christina does some tinkering with her hand-held electronic device and a guy appears with computer and bag. I am already in debt, so let me go all in. I ask to see the phones.

Mrs. Alfaro interrupts and wants to know how much longer. She thinks she has some appointments in another city. She’s so specific about the ‘other city’ that even Christina laughs. The phone appears and Christina offers to place the film cover on it with a cool little machine.

The whole exchange must have taken no longer than fifteen minutes, but still, I couldn’t get out alive. Or with my reputation.

As we are leaving with sleek square bag and mother in wheelchair, Christina runs after me and taps me on the shoulder. She seems embarrassed, “There’s something on the counter your mother might have left…”

I wheel back and see the pink gums and white teeth of her lower dentures shine next to the new iPhone 16 Pro Max display.

If I wasn’t so used to this old lady’s shenanigans I might have been surprised. Instead, I pick them up and put them in my shirt pocket with the ease of say… an iPhone. I don’t even apologize. Christina has moved on to other victims.

On the way back, we stop at KB Chinese Bistro on Euclid in Fullerton and buy meat-based dishes for the carnivore dieters and noodles for Mrs. Alfaro and the kids. We all eat together. It’s my favorite part of my large eccentric family. My brother-in-law introduces me to his favorite carbonated waters.

I get Mrs. Alfaro’s room ready for another transition, the sundowner part of her day. Black out curtains and into her pajamas, along with a gaggle of considered pills to ease into the evening and through the night.

By the time I leave for L.A. it is nearly eight in the evening. I am exhausted. But so is she, which was the goal. She will sleep like an angel and dream of Apple stores.

It must be how tired I am, but I can’t help but feel emotional by the slow seemingly imperceptible leaving that is going on here.

But she’s been going for the last seventeen years and still manages a six-hour day at the Forgetting Condition Center, along with driving everyone in the family insane with a nice enunciated and clear scream from her room, “Did I already eat?”

And then quiet, as she lays out her photos.

A memory trip awaits.