I am lost, Mother

 

in the spaces you leave behind

                  

          I cannot even see

         

                   a shadow there to

         

                             follow

         

                                                I have no way to comfort you in the

 

                                                empty room

         

                                                your mind now is

 

                                                doors and windows

                                                shut

 

                                                blinds hung

                                                closed

 

 

I don’t think I have Alzheimer’s. My memory

is my own and I’m going to keep it.

 

 

What We Don’t Say

 

I snap off the radio.

She’s coming downstairs.

“Why can’t I stay?”

Picks up a tea towel and cup from the rack.

“I have nothing to go back for.”

 

          —because already I’m worn out?

          —because when you’re here

          I can do nothing else

          but answer your questions,

          find what you’ve lost,

          fix what you’ve broken,

          remember not to say,

          ‘I told you that before’

          —because watching you stumble

          down steps, over pebbles

          trips me over myself?

 

“Because there’s too much to do.

No time for any fun.”

 

She frowns at the counter,

slaps down her towel.

“Why does everyone think I can’t

do anything anymore?

Don’t tell me I’m useless!

Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” she says.

 

          —just make the job:

          simple, easy

          —just provide:

          tools and supplies,

          old clothes she can get dirty,

          tea every hour

          —don’t ask her to make decisions:

          ‘this colour or that?’

          —don’t step out of sight

          —don’t leave her dangling,

          unsure what to do next

          —and when she tells you

          of the sketches

          she’s made of the hayfield,

          don’t say, ‘you never did them’.

 

“Mom—please understand.

We want to spend a few weeks

together and alone.”

 

                   —Together? Alone? Alone like me?—

she doesn’t say.

 

I drive her to the airport,

watch

as she’s wheeled

up the ramp, through the gate,

to be flown back to her room,

the nurses,

the cleaning staff.

 

“Fuck!” I say to the lounge

full of travellers,

children.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus

fuck.”

 

 

                                                I had to get angry. There’s anger and fear,

                                                one or the other, and I chose anger.

                                                Anger is what keeps you alive.

 

 

Time to Plan

 

After coming here, she doesn’t need

to worry anymore about

meals, medicine, safety.

There are people to talk to,

complaints to make.

 

“Now I’m regaining

my spirits and health,

now is the time to plan

my next ten years.

“Another cup of tea?”

She’s bought a pot and kettle

from the hardware down the street.

 

“Maybe I’ll take a cruise,

just keep changing ships.

“Or move to Nova Scotia.

I could live there all winter,

get it ready for you in spring.

 

“I could do the Elder Hostels,

enrol in art school.

 

“Go back to the Anglican church.

Good music. Church suppers.

 

“Or visit each of my six children,

two months each year.

 

“I’ve never really had the chance

to do all I meant to do.”

 

We talk, and talk,

and talk.

 

 

                                                I don’t want to be treated as if

                                                I’ve got some horrible disease.

                                                Because, if so, everyone’s going

                                                to get it sooner or later. I can be

                                                smug about that!


Sign of Respect

 

Afraid she’s fallen or had a stroke

when she doesn’t answer my knock,

I have the nurse unlock her door,

ignoring with a daughter’s disdain

the clearly written post-it—

“Do Not Disturb”

in her school-teacher hand—

stuck above the knob,

 

and can only laugh

with surprise and a kind of

relief and delight

to see two bare bodies

half rise on the bed,

as I step in.

 

“Sorry!— ” I back out fast.

 

Who gave me the right

to breach a shut door?

 

What made me sure

age had smothered that flame?

 

 

 

                                                If I must live husked like a nut,

                                                dammit you’ll hear me rattle and

                                                shake in my shell!

 

 

Letter to Myself

 

If this happens to me

I will kill myself.

I don’t mean to let the words out.

And with my daughters

manage to refrain.

But to him, they slip out suddenly

through cracks in conversation,

at stopped moments in halls.

Nights, I plan the method

that will cause least pain.

Look most like an accident.

Google has thousands of recipes

but not one is certain.

Not Scotch and pills and winter:

they say you vomit it up.

Not slipping through a hole in ice:

someone is always watching.

And which backyard, which lake

will I choose to forever poison

for those left behind?

There will be no more words.

Not even, I’m not sorry.

 

 

 

                                                This is not reality, my reality.

                                                This is where you go when you’re

                                                finished.

 

 

Conundrums

 

Which is worse?

To lose your sight

or your mind.

 

To be safe and smothered

or alone and slipping.

 

Where would you rather be?

 

Far away and worried

or close and overloaded.

 

In the middle

or at the edge.

 

Angry

or afraid.

 

 

 

                                                Every book has to have something sad.

                                                Without that, it's a fairy tale. People of my age

                                                have been through two wars, a depression,

                                                epidemics—we can handle anything.