The indignity of dementia, a half-life witnessed by those who love them

When she was driving the Lexus into the last parking space, she noticed the woman with the platinum page boy hairdo.

She couldn’t remember her name, although she’d seen it written on more than one occasion just above her own in the visitors’ book. The woman with the platinum bob, dressed as always in pastels as if she was just about to board a cruise ship, was leaning up against the red brick wall beside the entrance, head tilted back, eyes closed. Enjoying the late afternoon sunshine, the other woman assumed.

It was only when she was almost level with her that she spotted the tears. Not even tears, really, just the shiny slug-tracks of recent weeping.