Dementia is cruel. Who Is She?

Dementia is cruel. Who Is She?

I look in a mirror;

I ask you, Who is she?

You gently explain,

“This is you, my love.”

Tears start to pour;

horrified, I say,

“No, she is not me.”

Then sometimes I know;

I say, “This is me.”

Dementia is cruel,

a horrible memory disease,

taking my mind,

leaving me in an empty space.

I ask you a question,

the same one over and over,

every day:

Who is she? I say,

In that mirror, it’s not me.

Yet through the confusion,

I feel love's embrace,

your hand in mine,

a steady, warm place.

Even as shadows threaten

to steal my way,

in the heart of our bond,

I find light in the day.

Though the names may vanish

and moments may stray,

your laughter, your love,

is my guiding ray.

And when I ask you,

Who is she? still,

you reply,

The only girl for me.

And I reply to you,

Who is she?