Left Behind


Watching Mom succumb to Alzheimer’s is like running toward a bus stop where someone I love has just gotten on the bus and is riding away and I have all these things I want to say and maybe find a way to make her stay, but she’s on the bus and it begins to move and I’m running toward it as it pulls away and both of us, me and the bus, are moving and I can see the blue exhaust at it begins to accelerate and move into traffic and I run harder and harder trying to catch it … and then sooner or later I realize my folly and my gait slows … and slows … and slows … until eventually I stop and just stand there watching the bus fade into the distance, taking her away and out of my life forever.

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About Melissa Crandall

Longer ago than I care to admit--although I will--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and media tie-in novels. Since then, I've moved on to narrative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and essays. I write to explore and understand the world around me, the things I see and experience nearby or from a distance. If I shake myself up, cool. If I shake you up, even better. Not gratuitously--what's the point in that?--but to set what I know, or think I know, on end and realize, "Well, doesn't it look different from this side!" My work is neither sexually explicit nor graphically violent. Let's face it - your imaginations will come up with things far worse than anything I could write, no matter how descriptive. Besides, it's just not my thing. I live in Connecticut with my supportive husband Ed, a cat named Ruby who might just think she's a dog, and an epileptic Australian shepherd named Holly who isn't quite certain anymore who she is, except she knows she loves her mommy.
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