ramblings and things

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dementia

there are food stains on his waistcoat
and sometimes dribble on his chin;
his eyes at times glaze over as though
in his mind there's no one really in,
but sometimes this man from my past
this friend of so many precious years
greets me with that smile
and I know again he hears
and maybe for a little while
we talk of times shared and gone
until before we know it
the clock has moved inexorably on.

and I have to leave my old friend
never knowing if or when
we will share more lucid meetings
or ever reminisce again.

and my old friend lives on
just a remnant, just a shell,
physically alive but trapped
in his own mental hell,
so well cared for
and kept from any harm.
but the beauty of memory means I see
him as he was his charisma, his charm.
so I make my visits out of friendship
and whether that day he can see or hear
I like to think he, like me, gains comfort
by my being there at his side and here.











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dementia