Alzeihmer's disease: How my friend lost her father
by kankshi-dhar
Tearing apart your room, she fervently searches for memories, laid bare
on pages; of laughs crystallised over molten carbon and unspoken words breathed on sages.
Clasping her hands, I fumble
to help, pondering over the drizzling
helplessness down her cheeks, as you sit
on that rocking chair, wondering
who is she.
I stroke your daughter's back, while
you peacefully swim in apostasy.
The piquant river of syllables streaming
from your mouth, a far distant fantasy.
Your nuerons , capable of discoveries
and tragedies, now trapped between tangles and plaques , as you observe
blank eyed, your daughter, a woman following your track. Your failing
nerves, dragging you farther back than
you would ever go, to distant memories, decades old.
Your daughter's memories expunged
from your brain and your age too. And
as you grow tired of the two women, blubbering on the floor, you walk away, whispering, "Where's Dandelion?" , trying to find your wife, who passed twelve years ago.
But catching a glimpse in the mirror,
of a face you can't remember, I see
you stand horrified to find laugh lines
and wrinkles, tracing stories that now daunt your heart, as it thumps faster to remember who you even are.