A small collection of poems dedicated to my grandmother as she faces debilitating dementia.

91

She came into the world late and 

Reluctant, limbs flailing backwards 

Leaves trying desperately not to fall 

So it wasn’t surprising that she left 

Late for death, refusing his invitation 

The price she paid gnawed into her 

Bones crunching, sawing one by one

The gritting, demeaning sound of aging 

Ice cold hands robbed of circulation 

Curled around the walker, lips pursed 

In prayer (words fumbled or forgotten)

Eyes stretched wide with confusion 

For she who refuses to gently pass on

Dementia I

The things we lost were not that grave

My mother’s ring, passed down for years

My grandmother’s silver, carefully polished 

The final voicemail from my grandfather

(so maybe the losses mount)

But they are nothing compared to the words

The sounds that slip away, start to evade us 

The blank letters my grandmother writes 

Believing they are filled with meaning

Dementia II

Grandma took hours on these cards, 

My mother says

She told me to mail them to her sisters with care 

She imagines words of love and comfort

When she opens them, 

The cards are blank. 

Dementia III

Dad is on the phone again

This time she found the scissors

There are bugs in the carpet

They illuminate at night and dance

A menacing parade for her eyes only

She is clawing through the wall

To break free of the routine

I hug her twice when we leave

Grasp her wrinkled arms and 

Hope that I don’t leave bruises

Memories of me to last for weeks

But she already forgot what I said

She is carving holes in the table. 

On Losing

She remembers short hair, children 

Sticky hands opened wide with longing 

Rather than the indifference of juveniles 

Then came the visits trekked, spent alone 

The smiles that tore at her sagging cheeks

She remembers children, three of them 

And her son — but wait, isn’t he a child, too?

How can children have children? 

Who are these people now, old and foreign 

Not nearly as much so as the face in the mirror 

The most alarming stranger of them all. 

Arrivederci

She said he gave up his passport 

Not out of necessity, but pride 

A definite parting with a fascist rule

A finite farewell to Mussolini 

So they chose a land where identity 

Is like holding water in your palm 

Pruned fingers trying to transfer 

Just one droplet to someone else 

Saying: look! This is who I am-

The berth, the breadth, the bread 

Of my people (the blood of my land)

Things not translated in foreign tongue 

Because here who you are is reduced 

Boiled down to the depth of your skin

Paid off later from the debt of your skin 

By family who can’t pronounce your name.

Things Long Lost

The red suitcase broke a long time ago

I wonder if it outlasted us 

My grandma did- she’s still hanging on

Teeth clacking with the stamp of time 

Because she won’t let go 

These are things I understand verbatim-

The taste of longing and the rattle of loss

The inability to wrench open your palm 

And accept that it’s empty

Continued Reading: Inside Dementia: A Look Into My Grandmother’s Mind