Blessed Alzheimer's

Blessed Alzheimer's 

He sits on his bed,
knuckles like concord trunks
fumble with shirt buttons,
“Where are we going?” he asks,
for the fourth or fifth time.

“To the cemetery,”
slips past the swell
in my throat.

“Oh? Who died?”

I have to tell him again,
“It was Jessie, Grandpa.”

His mouth opens
silent grief
eyes dip 
“Is the funeral today?”

This conversation replays
all the way there.

Full moon shows through
the blue and white painted sky.
Lavender and yellow daisies
cover the casket 

of the second wife

he has outlived. 

Faces of family and friends
are all new to him.
Each condolence becomes
a fresh fracture to
blessed Alzheimer’s.

He sits, eyes in the past
as Beloved Wife is eulogized.
Present slips in
when her name is said
and a new mourning period begins.

How many more times today 

will his heart be broken?

tomorrow when he asks

can i just say that Jessie is still 

In the hospital

And let him continue in the bliss 

of dimentia. 

He’s borne many palls
walked with grief
squared off with death
more than once.  

When he joins the chorus
of Amazing Grace
he moves us all to tears.

____________________________________________________________________________

The "knuckles like concord trunks" comes from when I worked in the vineyards in Upstate NY. I wanted an image of something twisted the way Grandpa's knuckles were twisted with age. 

Sorry about the sad poem. If it's too sad, don't read it. I will try to write something happier for next time.

I just watched you in an episode of Millennium. You were FANTASTIC! 

I hope you have a very happy Thanksgiving.