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Wren Wright
3 min readDec 21, 2022
I designed the cover, Donna Clement took the photo, and Luis H. Ruiz chose the font colors and sizes and placed the text where I told him to. I’m bossy that way.

You can download the book (you don’t need a Kindle to download it) for FREE through Friday, December 23, 2022, 11:59 p.m. Pacific Standard Time. But why wait? Do it now. And please share the info with anyone who might be interested.

It’s available worldwide on Amazon.

AMAZON UNIVERSAL LINK: smarturl.it/TheGrapesofDementia

AMAZON UK LINK: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01N8QYW5A

AMAZON .COM LINK: www.amazon.com/dp/B01N8QYW5

Please consider leaving a review after you’ve read it.

Here’s the excerpt . . .


Alan is under the covers, ready for sleep. His bed is in its night position, just a few inches off the tiled floor. This is a safety measure at the nursing facility. If Alan were to topple out of bed, he wouldn’t fall far, wouldn’t sustain much of an injury. I sit on the floor beside him. It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and we’re winding down the day, quiet, relaxing in each other’s company. This is the extent of our pillow talk these days, just being with each other, usually no words.

I pick up a bag of red grapes I brought from home. This is our dessert, our before-bed snack, our intoxication, our truth. I pull an especially plump and juicy-looking grape from the stem and toss it to Alan, thinking he’ll try to catch it in his mouth. But no, the thought doesn’t occur to him. We giggle, and I pick up the grape that landed ungraciously near his call button, and try again.

This time I’m only a couple of inches away from his mouth. His eyes smile, and he opens his mouth like an eager baby bird waiting for a regurgitated dinner. I toss the grape in, and this time he “catches” it. Now it’s his turn. I pull another grape, hand it to him, and he tosses it toward me. It’s a foul ball, too far off field for me to catch in my hand, let alone with my mouth. No matter. I pull another and hand it to him. I lean toward him, and he plunks it in my mouth, feeds it to me.

We continue like this, taking turns “tossing” grapes and feeding each other, for a few minutes until Alan tires. He wants to sleep. I get on my knees, dust myself off, and lean over his bed for a good-night kiss.

On the four-minute drive home, I smile, enchanted and content with the time Alan and I had today, and all is well. Grapes represent abundance. Love indicates abundance. Dementia symbolizes abundance. Yes, why not?

Alan in 2010. Photo credit: Monica Swacha



Wren Wright

Writing mostly to heal myself from life; sharing in hopes you’ll find some of it helpful. Also books, personal development, and anything else I’m drawn to.