alzheimer’s – Aremyfeetofftheground

There’s no coming back

might it be
that you hear me only
as a poorly played horn
a bothersome oboe

as you rest in the wheeled chair
with your gown of faded flowers
and a tray of uneaten food before you
I think you have left little of yourself
to control this bird’s body
its care no longer a concern

its eyes they watch something
but not this room
not this person who is me

are you privy to the divine
forsaking all else

a week ago
inches from you
I cried.
you knew
at least that.
you knew,
for there was a wistful smile
a swimming back

and now
I make my peace
because I know that you take with you
something of me

The wasting of a mind (a mother known)

The years are ten
since your body died.
Fifteen since you fled in spirit.

That damn old sharpness and command you had
That keen sense of the ridiculous
Lost in the vexing of an unchosen labyrinth.

Our nervous laughter.
Our embarrassment for you.
Sidelong glances.
What to do?

You were looking around corners,
expecting the worst.
Each day, the maze grew more confounding.
Your shields were up,
and no one could get in.

We strangers let you lie
in a home that was not.
We came and fed you,
shared the load
until you were done.
Helpless. Helpless.

Just last night,
in my dream of blackened beams,
I watched, appalled,
as your mystic ghost rose in torment
from its wasted habit.

Embarked on the journey of the lost.