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.
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.