Blessed Alzheimer's
He sits on his bed, knuckles twisted 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 his 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? When he asks tomorrow can I just say Jessie is still in the hospital and let him live in the bliss of dementia? He’s borne many palls walked with grief squared off with death more than