Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand
new and nameless, their faces' puzzles
missing pieces. She's like a fish
in deep ocean, its body made of light.
She floats through rooms, through
my eyes, an old woman bereft
of chronicle, the parable of her life.
And though she's almost a child
there's still blood between us:
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives,
stairs, from the street that calls
as rivers do, a summons to walk away,
to follow. And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,
when she sometimes looks up
and says my name, the sound arriving
like the trill of a bird so rare
it's rumored no longer to exist.
Heart wrenching and beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThe rhythm in this poem reads really well. The images and phrases flow and tell the story of this elderly person so well.
ReplyDeleteIt's nice that the family is taking care of this grandparent. Too often elderly are sent to homes because they become too inconvenient
What about the thrill the narrator gets from hearing his/her name?
DeleteI agree the references to blood and birth give the sense of duty, and of course the story is sad.
My grandmother luckily didn't get that bad before she passed, but every time I talked to her it was one of the same 2-3 conversations. I didn't call her as much as I did when she was more alert. Luckily my grandmother had 4 daughters who took pretty good care of her.
I always wondered what was worse losing others or losing yourself? How often do you realize or care? Still Alice was an extremely intriguing book and perspective into the loss of self through Alzheimers.