Dementia

Her frail hands 

Paper thin skin 

Like rice paper 

Folded again and again 

Laid over birch white twigs 

That tremble in a soft 

Breeze 

Before her on the child's desk 

An incomplete puzzle. 

A single piece remaining to be  

Placed. 

The rice paper around her throat 

Crumples the once sweet tone. 

As from her mouth cries of 

Loss and confusion 

Weak and frail stretch across the chasms 

Between us  

Climbing the elevation to my 

Ears 

I cannot understand. 

Nana, Nana, please 

I reach and hold my hands 

T'wards her face 

Her weathered eyes 

Foggy and caked with history. 

She looks through me. 

Who are you? Are you my husband? 

No to young. 

She looks through me.