Maybe it’s the mess,
or slight sickly scents,
roasted chicken, two veg, mixed
a carefree swish of bleach,
disguising, almost, a rising whiff
of you know what, with
the cherry, antiseptic
And I have to wonder
the wisdom of sense
as resist, again,
an urge to heave, or leave
as opening the door,
the house of memories,
fast forgetting, replaced
by repetition
Along the corridors
cages with doors ajar, borrowed,
months, maybe two
then shipped off, silent
before, hopefully,
fruits of a life
burned on these wasted shells,
similar in body, no spirit
as remembered
You, you’re in your chair, tuned
to daytime joys, maybe one day
I’ll stare in the same direction
wear the same bland expression
or maybe I’ll get lucky,
get taken by a bus, train
something quicker than this.
Offering you Balvenie,
your favourite, so strange
how the stranger knew
I convey the news, ignored
but politely, you always had
such lovely manners
You tell me today’s secret, again
I feign interest, again
I had no idea your daughter
was such, and that
you must be so proud...
the vacuum returns, blank
until the adverts, then
a flicker, but not for long.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:44 AM UTC
Maybe it’s the mess,
or slight sickly scents,
roasted chicken, two veg, mixed
a carefree swish of bleach,
disguising, almost, a rising whiff
of you know what, with
the cherry, antiseptic
And I have to wonder
the wisdom of sense
as resist, again,
an urge to heave, or leave
as opening the door,
the house of memories,
fast forgetting, replaced
by repetition
Along the corridors
cages with doors ajar, borrowed,
months, maybe two
then shipped off, silent
before, hopefully,
fruits of a life
burned on these wasted shells,
similar in body, no spirit
as remembered
You, you’re in your chair, tuned
to daytime joys, maybe one day
I’ll stare in the same direction
wear the same bland expression
or maybe I’ll get lucky,
get taken by a bus, train
something quicker than this.
Offering you Balvenie,
your favourite, so strange
how the stranger knew
I convey the news, ignored
but politely, you always had
such lovely manners
You tell me today’s secret, again
I feign interest, again
I had no idea your daughter
was such, and that
you must be so proud...
the vacuum returns, blank
until the adverts, then
a flicker, but not for long.
I think like most people, I find the mere thought of Dementia terrifying. Of losing your identity, losing exactly what makes us who we are: our minds, the respect of others and the fragile self-respect that we spend all our lives trying to protect. The fact that the mind and the soul are inextricably linked in our thinking just adds to the confusion, and I have the utmost admiration for people that work in the care industry and do the job with compassion and understanding, often for little reward. The first stanza deals with the smell that greets you every time you walk in through the door, a curious mix of smells, none of them particularly pleasant. ‘Fruits of a life…shells’ refers to the use of a patient’s assets to pay for the cost of care. It’s strange that most first world countries ship the old and infirm into care homes, whereas developing countries will tend to care for them in the family home, which feels so much more humane. Perhaps it’s because we have got used to living much more independent, busy lives, perhaps it’s because we live much longer than they do, or perhaps it’s because they have a stronger sense of family.