the abstractness of Barbara

The softness of her scent,

of Eagle 100’s and cinnamon,

The kindness in her toothless smile.

Her shuddering breath as arthritis twists and mangles her hands.

The confused sorrow in her greying eyes.

The hurt in her voice, as the last ten minutes are

erased from her decaying memory.

I feel my heart ache and break

as I tend to new scores on her withered skin.

I smile at her repetitive stories, even

as I battle away my encroaching tears.

I smile, so she doesn’t see how much

I hurt due to her own pains.

I act like a fool,

so she doesn’t seem alone.

I listen to the same stories over and over,

branding them in my brain to remember her,

To remember the history and stories of her mind.

The petal like texture to her skin,

so delicate, bruised from age.

Over time, she formed new marks,

As she committed self-harm in the sense of curiosity.

I fight back my distress at

the wrenching thought,

At the promise of future pain.

Her memory fades even more now,

Blanked, erased, and disconnected.

I see myself in her eyes,

As she forgets I am not my mother,

She forgets I am not her own grandmother.

But I endure.

I watch as my mother struggles to keep her patience,

My stepfather to keep a hold on his temper.

I weep, in secrecy,

As I come with the thought,

“I’m losing her...”