Bruised

I.

She no longer knows voices on the phone

you had to say your name last time you called

faced with a blank pause - this too a milestone

of growing up and away and growing old.

A tremor perhaps, but quickly controlled

and the conversation curled but went on -

reset somewhere in the depths, overhauled

minds and meanings, the smallest shifts unknown.

Years knit up things and years unravel too -

the threads meshed together day after day

till the weave’s a habit you’ve slipped into;

but one thread snags, it all stops running true

and puddles at your feet, whichever way

you go on, the knot’s formed, and it’s here to stay.

II.

You wish the memories were yours to choose

and keep in a glass vase like bunched orchids.

As she loses her bearings you too could lose

the high recall of tremors and get rid

of the blanks in telephone calls, and visits

when she asked your name, but the residues

chafe under your eyelids like sand and grit

and the orchid’s face twists into a bruise.

That’s all you have in your hand to display -

some bruised flowers, the colours imperfect.

You can choose just the vase, don’t have a say

in the composition of that bouquet

fresh or faded, the long stems whole or wrecked,

the deviant petals not yours to correct.

Double dose and regular forms today, as least as regular as I can get - 2(8x6). Last month I met an elder with Alzheimer's - it's a difficult disease for the victim, for the caregivers, even more so when they are family members taking care of sick elders without any support far away from home. Last month also we had the local poetry festival, which I don't think I've mentioned.  We did, had great fun there too, I presented two of mine. Read and/or view.