Anniversaries, Birthdays…they come around whether we look for them or not
If my mother were still alive, last week she would have turned 75. This week’s poem is a few years old, drafted well before her death, when her dementia wasn’t as far along as at the end. Some would argue that she didn’t have dementia–notably my father, who has since also passed away–because dementia is such a frightening word. Scary doesn’t make it untrue, however.
Because we lived at a distance from my parents, we probably saw the changes in their health in a more punctuated fashion than those who lived closer. When you see something every day, changes are gradual. The way paint fades, and then one day you look at it and think, why have I waited to long to re-paint this room? Whereas if you only saw the room once a month, you might think it needs painting a lot sooner.
Because this poem is from a few years ago, it also gives an older image of my son. His changes, too, have been gradual. I notice now that we don’t have near the type of issues that we use to have, on various types of behavior mentioned below. My mother would have said to be patient, usually good advice, and something that always looks easier in retrospect.
Changeling
Before going to my mother in the hospital, I poured two beers, an old bottle of merlot, some rubbing alcohol down the drain
so I wouldn’t worry about my changeling boy, how he couldn’t wake before nine, needed a nap by noon. How I found
things in his room I shouldn’t: chicken bones, the remains of a pork chop, candy wrappers covered in strange markings. Supposedly I should
think this all kid stuff, but how can he go without a coat while ice still forms? Bring home another kid’s clothes, lose his shoes?
Or forget again to eat anything? Not care about insects, mice, whatever else might be drawn to the grease breaking down
into its constituent components, the way my mother is breaking down into her own parts, some working, many not. Most on forgotten
momentum, wheels grinding over rails, spare screws dropping along the hospital corridor. A trail of half-finished thoughts and
unspoken sentences, verbs or direct objects left about like old receipts, empty bottles.
If you enjoyed Changeling
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print.
Missed a poem of the week? Links to prior weeks are on this page.
Other poems that mention my mother are Box of Heads, II and Several Truths and A Lie.