A faded flourish
Where the headboard should be
Papered cracks, widening with age
Years of flaked skin, line the floors
And still she sits, oblivious
She doesn’t mind the damp
Likes the cool air on her skin
Doesn’t worry about closed curtains
Sunlight is her enemy
It only highlights the wear
The chair complains, as she moves
Humming her lullaby, to the cat
Who cares not for her words
As long as fingertips can still
work a tin opener
Barely registering the presence
Of visiting family
She remembers small faces
Full of grubby smiles
Yet not these strangers
These faces are long
And tired
She cannot contemplate
How they could grow old
Yet she herself, has not.
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You have certainly scored a hit with this one, Ginni. The ironies and simplicities of dementia–captured in broad strokes.
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Thank you for the kind words 🙂
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