Earlier the snow fell sideways slowly in gigantic flakes
but now their weight is too great; they descend straight down hard.
For her everything is constantly changing…a mind in flux, ebbing and flowing,
a wavelength on a nearby monitor…never quite sure where you are,
who you are. “Who are you?…oh, my son…yes, how are you?”
The snow coats the manicured green lawn with ghostly white.
Her head collapses into her hands and she cries…”I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Pieces are missing and she can’t find them; she searches the archives
but the vault is disorganized, plenty of boxes but no labels and the more she searches the more frustrated she becomes so she rummages through the ones close to her, merely random location…nothing personal. “Why are you sorry, mom?” Feeding her clues, breadcrumbs, like the snow settling on the grass she calms and states matter-of-factly:
“For my condition.” She recognizes that she doesn’t recognize granddaughter and son.
Is that irony? Time is not the healer they say, time is the snow that discreetly covers the earth;
once a Garden now a tundra; time kills memories and names, he is a thief and a murderer.
Do you blame our mortal enemy time or the disease? “Would you like some cookies?
I found my blue watch, today.” She cascades down the ribs that are the chapters of her life;
memories fall and fail, the mind so frail, they break apart on the rocks of time, only fragments remain.
“Your Aunt Mary loved winter…we made snow-angels in the corn fields…where was the farm?
What was that place called?””Strathroy, mom.” “Yes, that’s right…have you ever been there?”
“Your granddaughter Ashley was born there.” “Is that right, dear? Oh, my!
I found my blue watch, today.” Later, after we’ve gone and the snow relented, she becomes
‘Peak-a-boo-Kay’ to the night staff, looking out the door then ducking back inside…
waiting for visitors, or a chance to escape? There is no stranger prison
than to be the stranger in your own mind.
Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2016