Monday, August 31, 2009

The Beginning of Dementia

Her eyes were distant
But there was enough real in her
To touch me
As she wandered in her mind

My father was brewing, frantic
Onion soup

But she no longer understood dinner

He was sweating
Like the onions

Sure, I’ll open the wine
I stole a sip straight from the bottle
Like a boy/girl

In the bathroom
She wanted me to help her
Our roles reversed

Of course,
I expected this

But when she covered her eyes
And cried
The child in me
Could not
Untangle her

I am barely a person.

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