My mother does as the others do and sits searching the nursing-home floor for what she’s lost. I comb her hair, the teeth moving through strands white as my father’s shirt for church, the one she’d iron as we waited upstairs for baths, her sudsy hands, and her Irish singing. When I speak now she stares at me and taps her wedding ring to silent music against her wheelchair. Today the back door’s open, and this dog with a broken leash wanders in barking, bewildered. My mother looks as if she just woke up and calls Ginger, our collie’s name from thirty years ago and the frantic dog stumbles over and lies beside her chair. My mother pushes her veined hands into his fur, whispering Ginger, Ginger, her wrist ID tinkling his tags as she rubs his curly head. I lean over and, in the soft darkness of his coat, my hands meet hers and she wraps her fingers around mine. I place my face into the shampoo fragrance of her thinning hair, lost enough to love any name she could call me.