Kaity Cimo is running Boston for Alzheimers awareness

Boston Marathon

Simo is running for the Alzheimer’s Association for her mother, who was diagnosed with the disease.

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name: Katie Simo

Age: 43

City/State: Scituate, Mass.

In honor of my mother, her love language of cooking, and the essential memories she has given me and my sister over the years, I will be running the upcoming Boston Marathon for the Alzheimer’s Association.

Below is an article I wrote about my mother:

“This looks like trash, is this trash baby?” my mother-in-law asks, holding an old yellow plastic jug, as we clean out my mother’s kitchen, deciding what we want to keep, donate, or, at the lowest level, trash.

I take a quick look at what I’m sorting. “Yes, you trash, no one wants that.”

Almost immediately, I started to fill up; The stinging feeling of sadness rises to the surface. I wave my hand in front of my face as if I can push it down, keep it from spilling out, hoping that my mother’s current Alzheimer’s condition won’t make moments like this seem final.

Just 5 minutes ago, as we started opening up cabinets and cupboards, I started to feel that sorting these items – kitchen utensils – versus old books or even old clothes, for example, was starting to affect me differently.

Pulling out casseroles and serving bowls that I hadn’t seen in years, I could almost smell the baked-on cheese scent of chicken Parm, lasagna, and stuffed shells—lots of stuffed shells over the years. It was an overwhelming reminder of how my mother shows love best: by serving people.

It’s how I moved across the world — to make sure people were cared for and comfortable.

I don’t know if she ever really loved cooking (I have a love-hate relationship with it), but the nurturing part of it is what she loved. Holidays. If someone is sick, sad, or celebrating. If she’s on grandma duty, or if the day ends with the letter y, she’ll be happy to factor a meal into the equation.

These physical vessels that carry this nurture, this warmth and sustenance have become, without me being fully aware of it, a symbol of that same warmth and care.

In her kitchen now, without her here, I look at these treasures knowing she will never use them again. Although it is still with us, it is unable to be used again; The disease took that from her. But I know that every inch of her wishes she could.

The yellow plastic jug was full of memories that came back to him. Making powdered lemonade, powdered iced tea, and maybe another form of powdered beverage – yes, high C – (this was the 80s, okay?) with my mom and sister. A wooden spoon we might fight over to stir the mixture until it dissolves. Powdered sugar floats into my nose and the taste of that wooden spoon needed to suck it dry. These sweet drinks take their place in the refrigerator during the summer weeks, serving as a cold treat every afternoon.

Today, in my mother’s old kitchen, I couldn’t find the white lid that had been with the jug – perhaps it had been lost long ago. It’s just a cheap plastic jug.

Except it’s not fair. It’s everything, isn’t it?

Editor’s Note: This entry may have been lightly edited for clarity or grammar.