Tag: memory loss

There is no past
Remembered
Or future
Imagined.
Just the present.

Tense.

A singularity.

You live in the moment. Very on point as they say.
Content (or so I hope) sucking tea from a sippy cup
Or shredding tissues in your lap

While I am walking an imaginary dog (the one I was convinced would persuade you to let me have a real one for my 13th birthday)
Searching for something
Like a long forgotten book
Cursing that it’s always in the last place you look
And hearing you laughing
In that slightly hurtful grown up way of yours:
Of course it is! Because when you find it
You stop searching.

Finding something, I say: Remember that time…
…before trailing off.
Both of us lost to thought.

---

Three years since my mother, Sheila, died after she was brutally beaten by another resident in her Luton carehome. Memories of happier visits before that day are still vivid. It is possible to live well with dementia. But it’s a bastard disease for those who watch the fading of the light.

Shackled by time slippers shuffled
Stooped to the high-backed seat
Queen throned, grey crown ruffled
Prince and Princess at her feet 

The Prince takes a marbled hand
But a child’s touch cannot reach beyond
Their birth to a foreign land 
To retrieve lost memories fond

In her realm time and place are a synaptic jumble
Behind curtained lids sightless pupils dart
O’er a past decaying to a mumble
As mind and body part

On a pedestal a not-still life 
Head set in stone yet body moving
To the heart beat of a mother and a wife 
Her monumental presence soothing

---

This poem came to me after visiting my mother in her care home with my sister, Joanne. It was our first visit in six months because of Covid restrictions and only the second time we’d seen her in a year. I had originally planned writing about how hand holding is central to human relationships and that holding hands through surgical gloves is wholly inadequate – perhaps surprising given that latex is thinner than a sheet of paper. But it turned out there wasn’t much poetry in PPE 😷 and I was stumped until leafing through Poems of Today, an anthology of poetry I serendipitously discovered later that same day on my mother’s bookshelf. In it I was struck by Midnight Lamentation by Harold Munro and in particular by the last verse:

I cannot reach beyond
Body, to you.
When you or I must go
Down evermore,
There’ll be no more to say
-But a locked door.

The locked door image resonated as a metaphor not just for death but for the death of memory that is dementia. Another book on mum’s shelf (and on mine too) – A Shropshire Lad by A E Housman provided the metre.