Dementia

Why do they not see what I see so easily: memories?

My father’s ironed white shirt neatly kept on the bed

for him to wear to work. But who is the young lady?

Why does she wear it instead?

The little boy beside her is my grandson.

I watch him grow. He knows about

the stars in the Milky Way! I tell him about the million

dots spray-painted on the dark canvas of Time.

Time it was that I thought I had with you,

Which now refuses to be reversed.

I miss the fights, the lazy summer sunsets.

Come, let my fingers interlock with yours

and not worry anymore, cause our children have grown.

Another face emerges from yours, and I lose you once again.

Some I know, others repeat they know me.

And then they all fade to a white — brighter than a thousand galaxies

My daughter brings a cup of coffee, and I wonder how it tastes

Bitter and flavorful, she insists — I love drinking it.

Like my life, I wonder — bitter and flavorful.

Living on both sides, not belonging to any.

Torn between what vanishes when I want to touch,

And what stays, holding my hand,

telling me to be strong.

Did I finally reverse time?