Saturday, June 9, 2012
I watch you as you enjoy a home-cooked meal, then
talk about the songs outside your room. All night
they played, you say. I smile, glad that it's music
you're hearing and not the demon voices convinced
of enemies prowling, creeping in crevices of your soul.
But patiently they wait, then pounce from your lips
unexpected and I wonder if you created them,
or if by chance they're just offspring
made by the involuntary twisting
of wires that are too old.
There's nothing you control, you say, and stay
wrapped in a blanket of death's yearning,
immobile, stale, content with misery.
Is it life you grieve? so much
that it's become invisible from disregard
while still throbbing, running through your veins,
unseen, devalued but ready to energize
movement, joy, being
(Submitted to Dverse Poets.)
(Those of you who have followed this blog, may remember that mother-in-law is in a nursing home. Dementia often leads her to experience delusions and even hallucinations. It's nice when she hears music, but dreadful when she profanely and maliciously talks of her new roommate and other residents. She is unhappy, depressed which does little to reduce my occasional feelings of guilt for having her there.
Mother-in-law rarely leaves her darkened room. She has all her meals brought to her and stays in bed most of the time. She did have a nice time when she visited me and the family during a recent reunion. But she refuses to engage in any activities at the nursing home and has rejected the friendship offered by some very nice ladies. She has a right to chose, to self-determine her life. Still, I wish she would chose happiness.)