The old woman, whipple-white and crepey, fumbles with the pewter clasp of her 1920’s velvet paisley coin purse, sending her into a panic. Her fingers, carbuncled and boney, rake through the purse’s interior silk folds, searching. She’s after a sliver of Wrigley’s chewing gum that slipped its foil wrapper, a tiny green breath mint rattling carefree, a steaming cup of fragrant chamomile tea. She’s forgotten where she is: the atrium at the Plaza, her prosthodontist’s office, her 1970’s avocado-green-kitchen — before she moved to the Appelbaum Seniors Residence. Ephraim, her second son, leans forward in that gentle, listing way he does. He clutches her searching hand in his own, to calm, reassure, and distract her. She looks up, confused, her Wedgewood-blue eyes wary. Then beams like she did at the last act of Giovanni’s Spring Aria, like she did at her grandson Joshua’s first solo piano recital, like she did at Shmuley, the bag boy who used to bring her groceries every Wednesday afternoon. Ephraim waits for her to reorient herself before he begins to stroke the errant wisps of her fine white hair, whispering, “It’s ok, Ma, we’re all here with you.” But she isn’t coming back so quickly this time — the jerky lurching motion of the no. 4 bus taking her to the library to renew her Nancy Drew books, the bounding endless energy of Maisie her Ragdoll kitty springing off her lap, the gentle rocking motion of her late Mama shushing, shushing, at long last lulling her to sleep.