Down the nursing-home hallway was an old friend of Mammam’s – but they knew nothing of each other anymore. Anna Johns was a bit more alert than Mammam at this point and, just as Mammam did earlier, she could converse in a chit-chat manner that didn’t always immediately make clear her mental limitations. I visited The Manor with my father and we paused in front of Anna. My father said in that tone reserved for children and geriatrics, “Hia Anna! How are you?” “I’m good. Who are you?” she said immediately. “I’m Rose Topolski’s son, Walter.” No response. My father asked, “Do you know what your name is?” She promptly reached down, took the light blue slipper from her left foot and read the label inside, “Anna Johns.” she said confidently.
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