My grandma’s favorite holiday was groundhog day.

I don’t know if she just loved the fanfare of it all;
If she thought it was so trivial and fun;
If Pansawtukee Phil was just too adorable;

Or maybe she was just a fan of Bill Murray?

(Which I mean—who isn’t?)

My grandma always had a knack for everything, not just the weird holidays:

It was continuing to remind me that penguins have knees,
And instilling at least one of her grandchildren with a love of the X-Files that never faded,
(Me again)
And people watching
from the car outside of Byerley’s —
Insisting it was going to be her novel
“Tales from the Parking Lot.”

She also used to tell us that my grandfather had been reincarnated as a cardinal.

And she would tell us,
In the springtime,
He, (or the cardinal,)
Would come visit.

And, my grandma adored talking.

She would tell anyone her life story
Whether they wanted to hear it,

Or not.

This included:  
nurses,
doctors,
a man named David at the Jewelry store,
some of my friends when we were just driving through on a road trip from college and stopped to say, “hello,”

Really, anyone who would listen.

She called it her gift of gab.

And, she was also really into scrapbooking
and creating slideshows of pictures
Simple ways of preserving the memories of loved ones

I don’t quite remember when her memory started slipping
When Alzheimer’s started digging it’s claws into
The facts, the stories...

Even the reality she knew and loved.

I’m sure, looking back, it was slow at first.
Like those first moments when Bill Murray wakes to the song “I Got You Babe,”

Again.

Not quite sure what is happening,
But confused.

The fear doesn’t begin until later,
As the events repeat again and again.

I remember my mother telling me of a moment
Where my grandmother was reliving her
Junior prom.

She lived with us then, and my mom had a baby monitor set up in her mother-in-law suite.

My mom woke to a crash through the baby monitor.
And when she rushed downstairs,
She found my grandma’s robes were laid out all around the room.

My grandma was on the ground,
The TV on top of her.

Her explanation of what happened is she was trying to steal the TV to buy a prettier dress.

In her lucid moments,
We told my grandma this story.

And she laughed
and laughed,
With the same confidence Bill Murray
has later in the film

Having accepted reality,
having accepted this fate.

Reliving days past
Knowing that a future
may never come.

It might be that the reason
She loved groundhog’s day was

The promise that spring is coming,
And with it, the cardinals,
And with it, new life.

My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds soft under blue skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance

Pray my memories remain deep within me like a
Fortress securely established on a rock-mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach

Life is a collection of Post-it Notes
Tiny pieces of paper
making up the collage of my mind.
These days though--
I'm not sure how well the glue is holding
The stickiness is starting to fail
The constant removal,
Rearrangement
Each note's move
Changes the picture,
Changes who I am.

When at last those squares
refuse to stick
Notes come tumbling down
Falling like rainbow colored rain
A final flood of memories --
Then ...
My mind's awash
Thoughts all a- jumble
A gentle breeze,
forceful as a hurricane
Comes to blows the bits away
Post-its scatter like leaves in the wind

All that's left
Is this blank yellow square
Longing to be writ
Once more

With just a bit of coaxing, she would sit up and recite
A poem she'd known since grade school, her eyes so clear and bright

Sometimes she'd need a little nudge to get her to begin.  "When mother puts her apron on", she'd say with a small grin...

...and off she'd go reciting each line flawlessly, with ease
Then when she'd end, her mind would seem to go, as if a breeze
Had ushered it away from us as quickly as it came
And then she wouldn't know the poem, nor anybody's name

But with that came a kind of blessing, at least I know of one
She may not have understood, full well, the loss of Jim, her son
But now, Miss Maudie's free from mortal flesh and bone
And those she loved, who've gone before are welcoming her home

Once more she will caress the man who held her hand in marriage
And now, again she'll hold the son she once strolled in a carriage.

They'll watch us as we travel down this wandering path of life
Rejoicing in our triumphs and supporting us through strife


And we know that they'll be there, waiting on the other side
When at last we've reached the journey's end, of this our earthly ride.

She does not lose well...

She will not forget.
It will haunt her,
the favorite pencil..
tip softened perfectly,
A paw, pushed it
somewhere to a secret spot.
Out of her vision...her reach.  

A peice of paper elusive, yet there...
lodged deep amidst
A stack
of most important things.

She does not lose well...

Not in terms of Games or Competition..
but the things in
her life
that Envelop
her world.

Tough, Scrappy,
Beautiful
and Oh-So Tender.
Holding all
things dear and
close to her heart

Loss is a place of  
deepest contemplation
for her.
The memories she has stored
through her life
stay alive,
stay vibrant,
stay with her

The immense
joy shared.
Her deepests sadness;
A cachet of stories
reverberate within her heart,
expanding outward
like ripples in a pond.

She does not lose well.

The Creatures
and People
that live within the wholeness of her being...

Even One pulled
out leaves,
like a building block,
a gap, a tear,
a hole in her life.

She does not forget,
Or minimize the Pertinance of Love,
Friendship
A moment that has touched her heart.

Forever an imprint upon her consciousness.
She is permeated with knowledge... the essence of all things.

When it is time for The Loss,
The breakng of her heart can be felt through all time
and space

Being filled with divine wisdom and insight, She is able
to see all aspects
at once.

The Purpose.
The moment becomes filled with rainbows of light.
She will bathe in that Beam...help guide Them Home
.
She knows how.

Knows intuitively what course will
be taken.
She trusts in the Divine. Her piece of solice, amidst the flutterings of her most  tender,
broken heart.

The history, the moments.  Living memories, are paramount  in the connection she has with All.

She does not lose well.

Her grief shrouds her, a mystical shawl.
A veil that will hold her dearly
till the pain is at least bearable..

Then she will
Begin
To tell her stories
once again.

Scream, Memory

Accidents don't happen on holiday,
do they?
Standing in the shower, I stare out of
a tiny window at the setting sunlight.
In a row, children on a rustic bench
chatter through their colored ices
and kick their sandaled feet.
Soon, a tall, bland man appears
with smiles for all--this is his family
and he is happy.
His ambiance is like a drug so I leave
my caravan, barely dry,
Wanting to speak to him and not knowing why.
His good fortune draws one to him,
Yet I find another reason.
He directs me without words
to a desolate room and a gown.
And I remember...that I have not remembered
lately. And my collection of names is dwindling,
memory leaking like a wire basket.
Even before I don the ugly robe and lie down
on a cold, plastic bench,
I know what the diagnosis will be.
The cylindrical tunnel looms and his nurse or wife
motions to it as he still smiles.
The machine roars like time passing
And I emerge carefully, not wanting to know.
Seeing my expression, he turns on me:
"It is bad news, but also sad."
He tilts his head like a bird, self-satisfied.
His vacuous delight belies the words.
What the hell is the difference, I think.
And like a falling tree, reality splits the dream
And knocks down my life.
I weep, uncontrolled.
It does not help to swear
nor to hit the wall with my fist.
But would it help to slap the doctor?
People crowd around and tell me to stop
but, as I had to when my father died,
I continue to rave.
For, what is simple to them
I will not make so to me.
I will mourn and censure Fate!
And if I still must,
I will not go gently
But scream all that I remember
Into the fading light.

April 19, 2019

Son, I remember smiling faces who
gathered around the television’s glow. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each one.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang out to
me like precious songbirds, my family.

Son, I remember faces who
gathered around the television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked each.
"Yes, Mamaw," they sang to
me like songbirds, my family.

Son, I remember who
gathered around television. "Are
you comfortable?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," sang to
me like, my family.

Son, remember who
gathered around. "Are
you?" I asked.
"Yes, Mamaw," to
me, my family.

Son, who
gathered. "Are
you?" Asked.
"Yes," to
me, family.

Who
"Are
you"
to
me.