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.
