Work Text:
A dusty gun, an abandoned book.
I had to explain the world to you;
pieces were missing.
Where is the red spoon?
Lost seven years ago
When we painted the kitchen.
Never seen again.
I bought another.
Why is the mail box key hanging
From the hook in the hallway?
You put it there eight years ago.
Your idea; it’s never lost, and
you found it that day, again, surprised.
And the next day, and the next.
You didn't remember liking beef barley soup
Or when the property tax bill was due.
You paid it, without fail. Until you didn’t.
And you bitched about the coldly worded
warning from the county.
I stopped you before you called their office
to complain about their computer system.
Didn’t want to fuss. No more nagging,
I promised myself. It's no way to live,
And we were still living, you and me.
So I paid it on time, twice that year,
And left the copy of the receipt
On the kitchen table.
You squinted at the paper,
At the small, barely legible type,
Wondering out loud
About the numbers, the words,
Then you dropped it in the box
on the floor by the fridge.
Things to file; that's what you told me.
You rarely let me throw things away.
So I filled the boxes and
Sent them to storage.
Wouldn't lie to you, or
Sneak them to the recycler.
Not a big deal to keep for now,
For a while, forever.
The veil lifted, sometimes for days,
and you were back: whole, hale, hearty,
bustling around the living room,
swabbing the bathroom floor.
Singing songs you learned 60 years ago,
Not missing a word, a beat.
And the next day, you knew who I was
But didn’t remember my name.
-----
Reciting blessing and curses and hymns,
Word perfect, a dozen languages
on the tip of my tongue, at my finger tips.
I waved my hands, and an ancient spell spun into the air,
Green smoke smelling of sage and burnt cedar.
And then, one day, I forgot.
Not just a half dozen words
To search for in the stained pages
of my college thesaurus.
Not just the name of the dog
I rescued in Arizona in another lifetime.
And the next day, I knew who I was
But didn’t know your name.
It was the first word I said, or so
Our parents insisted.
Before Mama. Before Papa.
That's what you told me.
I am slipping. No more runs at dawn.
Words dance and blur across the page.
I haven't read a book for days.
And here you are. Stepping up.
Taking care of your Sammy.
The sweet burden, you called it,
Revived you, and
You are taking charge.
For now.