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.

there is no hope yet
from the destroyer of worlds -
alzheimers