she is all but
gone from me now
sitting quietly in her chair
a mix of memories
and medications
she used to be fierce
and bigger
than her four foot nine inch frame
but now bones and flesh
fall and curve in
gnarling hands and feet
making her skin
look and feel like a letter
read a thousand times
her voice once so rich and strong
once full of opinion and humour
is now but wind
sighing through ever present pain
I miss the quickness
of her wit the most,
But I miss the mothering more.
Time has reversed our roles
and the decisions are all mine now...
She has out of sheer weariness,
having battled so long, for so hard
aceded her will
to the slow walk of dementia
She sits quietly in her chair
memories gathered
about her, as her companions
Some days it is like I am not here
and others,
she is not there
The days we meet
in passing....
or for a a good while
are gifts that shine bright
at least, in my saddened mind
On the other days,
I hope and pray...
she finds herself
amongst friends
in happy times...
as she wanders slowly away from us