Living with Dementia

She said, “get on,” she said,

but she meant ‘with my life’

but that wasn’t what she said

rather what I wished she’d say.

I look into her eyes

because she remembers me

and not much else,

like why she is here.

And she is small in her chair

slumped over her disappearing life,

her self,

that almost has.

I look into her eyes

just as she looks up, surprised

for the break in sorrow

and she smiles.

“Get on” she says, and by that

she means ‘keep going’

but she doesn’t really say

rather I wished she did.

She gropes for my arm,

climbing up from her smallness

like a child climbs her parent

to feel safe again in familiar arms.

Then she lets a sob escape

that would bring her dad back from the grave

like a demon let into heaven, their eternity gone,

their suffering vanquished.

But just for that moment, then gone,

and then the questions begin.

“Why am I here?”

“Why did your father leave me here?”

“You’re going home tomorrow”

repeated, and repeated,

“tomorrow, you will be going home”

and again, she needs to know.

The clouds of doom have parted

and a cheer girds her

to the open air

walking outside to the garden.

“I escaped from here, I did,

through the window”

She is proud,

she is the spooky investigator.

There is a mystery

connected, somehow, to her life

something that concerns

her freedom.

“I flew over the houses

back home, and I flew

over my home and I saw

a for-sale sign.”

Her sister once visited her

to announce a pregnancy

the same way,

flying in spirit.

“Well, your home is not for sale

and you will be there again

when you go there

tomorrow.”

She smiles and I hold her

as frail as she is

so that she can remember

I had been there,

and to hear her say

“get on” so that she can keep going

and get on with her life

even if she doesn’t.