Remembrance
by Caitlyn Henzie
Italicized portions of the text were drawn from “Dementia Is a Place Where My Mother Lives. It Is Not Who She Is” by Suzanne Finnamore.
my mother has an old favorite ring
that i bought for her when the corrosion began
in her mind, when she misplaced her wedding band.
she doesn’t recall that she ever had one.
to her, it’s perfect and brand new, nothing could be better
than its shiny unfamiliar mystique.
each time i put the ring on her finger, it will be the first time.
the dull of her eyes that stare right through me, flicker
to a radiant gleam, just for a moment
as they take in her "new" treasure.
“thank you, Nonna, this has got to be my new favorite!”
i let go of her hand with a wistful smile and a nod,
as mine goes to the sheets of her well-worn hospital bed,
tucked tight around her waist
hoping, struggling, to hold together
the last of her.
maybe if i drew the curtains by the window shut, made sure to close the door more securely,
fewer pieces of her would slip away
to the land of the forgotten, a place where linear time doesn’t exist,
where i’m both her daughter and her long-lost grandmother at the same time.
she had always said we looked alike.
the rhythmic beeping used to scare me, a harsh reminder of where she was.
although for now, i can mourn while staring into her smiling face
and pretend she’s just here for a check-up, just needed moral support.
but her soul has already become the wind
gusting by me on my walk home.
she’s gone, long gone, but still available to visit.