It always takes me a little time to transition from my fast-paced lifestyle to that of my mother's, who now spends her days confined to a wheelchair.

"Mom. Mom, it's Linda," I say to her as she reluctantly opens her eyes, looking confused and afraid. My voice seems to be pulling her away from a dream, into the real world, that of a nursing home in Ohio where she has lived since suffering a severe stroke almost two years ago.

"I've come from Pennsylvania to see you," I tell her, trying to orient her for my visit. It is early evening, and Mom's room is dark. She is sitting in front of a big picture window, dozing.

Outside, a streetlight shines brightly on the freshly fallen snow, illuminating Mom's wiry gray hair and tired face, which looks fleshier than I remember. Her eyes lie deep in gray-rimmed sockets.

It is mid-January, and the six-hour drive to the nursing home has left me feeling buzzed. I take a couple of deep breaths. Then another, willing away the commotion of my day.

For the next several hours I will be alone with Mom, a woman who looks so unlike the mother I once knew, who is beyond conversation, and whose reality often blends confusingly with her dreams.

I hug Mom tightly, and she looks me squarely in the eyes.

"It's so nice to have you here," she says quietly, her hand squeezing mine in deeply remembered affection.

But she is tired and slips in and out of the fog that clouds her days.

To pass the time, and to calm myself, I wheel Mom up and down the hallways of the nursing home, past doorways decorated with Ohio State University Buckeyes football posters or figurines of cats or plastic flowers, into sitting areas, where residents cluster around big-screen television sets that are annoyingly loud.

We move on to the Commons Room, which houses a beauty parlor, gift shop and several pool tables. This is Mom's favorite area, as beautiful, handmade quilts adorn the walls. I pause at each quilt, and Mom intently surveys its pattern and color scheme.

"Nice and simple," she says when seeing the bold, clean design of a Log Cabin quilt.

"So like Mom," I say to myself.

Eventually, though, I wheel Mom back to her darkened room and again place her in front of the big picture window.

Standing behind Mom, her slumped figure framed by the outside light, I touch her hair, massaging her scalp and face and neck and shoulders. Her head moves slightly upward towards my hands, as she relishes the touch.

"A crow," she says quietly, and I follow her gaze to a big black bird perched on the lamppost outside her window.

As I stroke her, I share news of the family, of my husband and three children, of our plans to remodel the kitchen and of my work. These are details she won't remember, just as she won't remember my coming, but the talking soothes her and comforts me.

"It's gone," she says, and I see the bird has flown from its post.

Somehow, the hours have slipped by, and it is time for me to go. I will visit again tomorrow, and then return to Pennsylvania, all the while knowing that one day this beautiful ritual will come to an end.