The neon green numbers
on the clock by her bedside
flash five thirty-two.
For her, it is always
1971
And I am a baby- and not
The mother of her grandchildren.
So I sit, loving stranger, answering her questions
About my aunts and uncles
As they were in their twenties
And only hear my name paired with diaper rashes and fussy nights.
When the clock hits five forty-seven,
A window opens inside her prison of dementia.
She calls me by my name
And asks about her grandchildren
And my husband
And my siblings and their spouses.
I fumble for my phone,
Hurrying to show her pictures,
To tell her of violin lessons and broken toes
And mention, as each topic passes
That we love her
That we are here for her.
The clock ticks with the backbeat of hospital equipment,
Scoring the countdown before the window closes once again.
At five fifty-one
I must once again introduce myself
And hear how she has a baby
With the same name.
Who can never sleep through the night.
About the Creator
Penny Fuller
(Not my real name)- Other Labels include:
Lover of fiction writing and reading. Aspiring global nomad. Woman in science. Most at home in nature. Working my way to an unconventional life, story by story and poem by poem.
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Comments (2)
This is beautiful and tragic, both. Demential and cancer are awful diseases and my heart goes out to you and your mom. I have experienced both of these in my own family. Lovely work :)
Oh. My heart goes out to you. Though she may not remember you it's clear she remembers how much she loves you. Take care.