Alice in Wandering

Marta is 64 years old, and for the past few months, her home has become a magical place. The rooms change position, time flows in a strange way, people around her occasionally go mad and say truly absurd things, and she herself is sometimes big and sometimes small.
Like Alice, she too one day fell into a black hole, which swallowed up who she was, where she was going, and what she was doing there.

Total disorientation. About a year ago, she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s, but no one around her intends to tell her. Instead, they have all taken on a role in her fairy tale. There is her husband—the White Rabbit—who guides her through the labyrinth their home has become, trying to tame time with his watch. There are the Mad Hatters and the March Hares, waiting impatiently with her for tea time at the day care center. There are the twin dolls she clings to when she is scared because nothing seems to make sense. The jealous Red Queens. The protective White Queens. The folk dances prescribed by the caterpillar doctors. The cats who give advice. The little flowers that sing her goodnight.
I have entered this fairy tale too, because this Alice is my mother. And after screaming, crying, and cursing the entire world, I have decided to embrace the unknown and play along with her.