Second childhood. . .
I remember when she remembered
what seemed like everything
fifty years ago
when I at first became a teen
that mid September day
and she was just past thirty-nine;
but she remembered not only
everything that happened long ago
but also predicted as if a fact
the future as if she really knew.
I knew she couldn't
but she insisted all of it was true.
That spurt of growth for me
when I reached twenty-three
propelled me past her forties,
her aged husband, monkey,
pug-nosed terror of a terrier,
step children – and wild imagination
all forgotten by me
but etched in her mind
in all the ways she
wanted others to find
them.
I knew they wouldn't
but she insisted all of it was true.
Two decades hence
she was a background tapestry
just hanging impervious
unobtrusively
as if unseen
a shape of anonymity
and I never knew what she remembered
of all the things she said she did
or what she ever wanted to do.
I knew she didn't.
but she insisted all of it was true.
I knew she was alone now
when hubby died
too suddenly
and vulture kids descended
before the carrion was cold
so I was told
no children, pets, or property left
to divvy up among the masses
no loaves and fishes to disseminate
among divergent classes
of those birds of prey.
She wouldn't say
anything bad about them
because she wouldn't dare
remember
or she couldn't care
less whether she did or not.
I never really knew
but she insisted all of it was true.
Two decades more have long since passed,
she, in the twilight of her life,
long having lost the sense of sound,
can see no more nor less than long before
when she was mother and a wife –
now widow looking blankly all around
wondering where all her family went.
Her active mind continued to contrive
a hybrid of fantasy, mistakes, reality –
a blend that stemmed in truth and fact
mixed in with fiction and The News Alive,
to which I did not empathically react.
Instead, I DID respond emphatically
and long.
"You didn't hear that right!
Again, you're wrong!"
Then, I muttered selfishly,
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
My rant continued,
"How can you possibly understand
what you cannot clearly hear
no matter how far or close you stand –
how loud the volume is – ?"
But, she smiled, beaming,
"Thank you, you're the best brother, dear,
a sister ever had – "
I tried to set her straight,
but she insisted all of it was true.
She called me Buddy, Harry, Charles –
watched Earthquake and Volcano,
Twister, and The Perfect Storm –
then stated, "We're gonna get hit
just like last year. It was on a special form
I saw last night – and I read it in the paper."
"Stop it, Mother!" my unrestrained outburst
yelled impatiently.
Again I cursed –
but she couldn't hear me –
lost in a world of preparation
for a future that I knew would never come.
I told her these were movies,
but she insisted all of it was true.
A.M. and P.M. melded as if one timeless entity,
night becoming day
and every day some other day
of some other week – she couldn't say
for sure –
until that hour I watched her plummet to the floor,
that pesky cat of ebony, lonely, needed –
weaving patterns
as if tying boy scout knots –
and she slammed her fragile frame
between the table and the wall
splitting thigh bone clearly,
cleanly – sole damage from the fall.
Too shocked to cry in pain,
she bravely bore it all
as I replayed the scene again.
She denied that this had happened
but I insisted all of it was true.
For months the rehab she called home
became the center, her universe,
distinction between real home and here
no longer separate entities
and I, her nephew, son, father, friend
(and more) –
sometimes a stranger newly met –
became the mirror, warped,
reflected whoever she might be today
mingled with what's on the TV set.
Current news she saw in ages past,
"I saw that," or "I read about that,"
or "I talked with him and heard him say – "
How long, I thought, will this dementia last?
Then – in silence cursed the gods, heaven, hell –
and fate and anyone whom I could tell –
for sympathy
for ME.
None came because (and I really knew it)
the important one is SHE.
The surge of anger swelled
because her world, no longer mine,
conflicted with all of my reality.
But she denied it firmly, "God damn you," –
and I insisted all of it is true.
Tasks by rote became complex –
coffee without filters
filters without coffee
double water or none at all –
burners left on – off, or wrong –
eight frozen wieners
drowning in a sea of uncooked eggs –
burning – smoke alarm screaming
she, oblivious,
toddling like a penguin on shaky legs –
reads unopened mail as if it were,
believing every promise from every scam
(as she had done so many years before)
paranoia still the rule
and knowing every person, Ma'am or Sir,
in bulk mail – maybe even Son of Sam –
every oracle or seer whose open door
invited every goddamned fool.
I told her that every day
as if it were the first time
but she never listens more than
just a moment, minute, hour – as I say,
"Pay no attention. She's a bitch
just wanting you, too gullible, to pay
so she or he or they become so rich – "
My words were lost on ears too deaf to hear.
Tomorrow, it will be the same all over again.
I told her that as oft I did before.
and she insisted none of it is true.
The time is now for me to change,
become accepting
she will never be the same
since senility – dementia –
set in, (no matter what the name).
Sometimes lucidity prevails,
but every spoken word becomes
a challenge to pronounce –
to utter clearly
in sentences coherent.
But I must listen to her
no matter who I am
or may seem to be to her.
Instead of fighting off
whoever she may think she is today,
I must embrace her as a father, brother,
nephew, friend, or son –
whichever she may choose to say
so that smiles replace the tears I caused
when in her world I had refused to play
her game –
I just wanted all to be the same.
When I told her this she smiled wanly.
She believed that all I said was true.
Her smile never left
and her vacant stare
still looks at me
at times as if
I weren't there.
I whispered close and slowly
so she'd know just what I said,
"I love you, Mom, forever."
She just nodded in agreement,
her only son before her
but lost inside her head.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 878 times
Written on 2007-01-05 at 05:42
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The Dementia of Mother
I remember when she remembered
what seemed like everything
fifty years ago
when I at first became a teen
that mid September day
and she was just past thirty-nine;
but she remembered not only
everything that happened long ago
but also predicted as if a fact
the future as if she really knew.
I knew she couldn't
but she insisted all of it was true.
That spurt of growth for me
when I reached twenty-three
propelled me past her forties,
her aged husband, monkey,
pug-nosed terror of a terrier,
step children – and wild imagination
all forgotten by me
but etched in her mind
in all the ways she
wanted others to find
them.
I knew they wouldn't
but she insisted all of it was true.
Two decades hence
she was a background tapestry
just hanging impervious
unobtrusively
as if unseen
a shape of anonymity
and I never knew what she remembered
of all the things she said she did
or what she ever wanted to do.
I knew she didn't.
but she insisted all of it was true.
I knew she was alone now
when hubby died
too suddenly
and vulture kids descended
before the carrion was cold
so I was told
no children, pets, or property left
to divvy up among the masses
no loaves and fishes to disseminate
among divergent classes
of those birds of prey.
She wouldn't say
anything bad about them
because she wouldn't dare
remember
or she couldn't care
less whether she did or not.
I never really knew
but she insisted all of it was true.
Two decades more have long since passed,
she, in the twilight of her life,
long having lost the sense of sound,
can see no more nor less than long before
when she was mother and a wife –
now widow looking blankly all around
wondering where all her family went.
Her active mind continued to contrive
a hybrid of fantasy, mistakes, reality –
a blend that stemmed in truth and fact
mixed in with fiction and The News Alive,
to which I did not empathically react.
Instead, I DID respond emphatically
and long.
"You didn't hear that right!
Again, you're wrong!"
Then, I muttered selfishly,
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
My rant continued,
"How can you possibly understand
what you cannot clearly hear
no matter how far or close you stand –
how loud the volume is – ?"
But, she smiled, beaming,
"Thank you, you're the best brother, dear,
a sister ever had – "
I tried to set her straight,
but she insisted all of it was true.
She called me Buddy, Harry, Charles –
watched Earthquake and Volcano,
Twister, and The Perfect Storm –
then stated, "We're gonna get hit
just like last year. It was on a special form
I saw last night – and I read it in the paper."
"Stop it, Mother!" my unrestrained outburst
yelled impatiently.
Again I cursed –
but she couldn't hear me –
lost in a world of preparation
for a future that I knew would never come.
I told her these were movies,
but she insisted all of it was true.
A.M. and P.M. melded as if one timeless entity,
night becoming day
and every day some other day
of some other week – she couldn't say
for sure –
until that hour I watched her plummet to the floor,
that pesky cat of ebony, lonely, needed –
weaving patterns
as if tying boy scout knots –
and she slammed her fragile frame
between the table and the wall
splitting thigh bone clearly,
cleanly – sole damage from the fall.
Too shocked to cry in pain,
she bravely bore it all
as I replayed the scene again.
She denied that this had happened
but I insisted all of it was true.
For months the rehab she called home
became the center, her universe,
distinction between real home and here
no longer separate entities
and I, her nephew, son, father, friend
(and more) –
sometimes a stranger newly met –
became the mirror, warped,
reflected whoever she might be today
mingled with what's on the TV set.
Current news she saw in ages past,
"I saw that," or "I read about that,"
or "I talked with him and heard him say – "
How long, I thought, will this dementia last?
Then – in silence cursed the gods, heaven, hell –
and fate and anyone whom I could tell –
for sympathy
for ME.
None came because (and I really knew it)
the important one is SHE.
The surge of anger swelled
because her world, no longer mine,
conflicted with all of my reality.
But she denied it firmly, "God damn you," –
and I insisted all of it is true.
Tasks by rote became complex –
coffee without filters
filters without coffee
double water or none at all –
burners left on – off, or wrong –
eight frozen wieners
drowning in a sea of uncooked eggs –
burning – smoke alarm screaming
she, oblivious,
toddling like a penguin on shaky legs –
reads unopened mail as if it were,
believing every promise from every scam
(as she had done so many years before)
paranoia still the rule
and knowing every person, Ma'am or Sir,
in bulk mail – maybe even Son of Sam –
every oracle or seer whose open door
invited every goddamned fool.
I told her that every day
as if it were the first time
but she never listens more than
just a moment, minute, hour – as I say,
"Pay no attention. She's a bitch
just wanting you, too gullible, to pay
so she or he or they become so rich – "
My words were lost on ears too deaf to hear.
Tomorrow, it will be the same all over again.
I told her that as oft I did before.
and she insisted none of it is true.
The time is now for me to change,
become accepting
she will never be the same
since senility – dementia –
set in, (no matter what the name).
Sometimes lucidity prevails,
but every spoken word becomes
a challenge to pronounce –
to utter clearly
in sentences coherent.
But I must listen to her
no matter who I am
or may seem to be to her.
Instead of fighting off
whoever she may think she is today,
I must embrace her as a father, brother,
nephew, friend, or son –
whichever she may choose to say
so that smiles replace the tears I caused
when in her world I had refused to play
her game –
I just wanted all to be the same.
When I told her this she smiled wanly.
She believed that all I said was true.
Her smile never left
and her vacant stare
still looks at me
at times as if
I weren't there.
I whispered close and slowly
so she'd know just what I said,
"I love you, Mom, forever."
She just nodded in agreement,
her only son before her
but lost inside her head.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 878 times
Written on 2007-01-05 at 05:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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