Our time together has changed over these past few months. What once was an uninterrupted stream of conversation that felt like a long walk through our old neighborhood—familiar, filled with memories—is now staccato-like thoughts expressed in limited vocabulary. Her memories, stored like jars on a shelf, opened only when she has the mental strength to do so. I see the struggle in her eyes to piece together words to go with whatever picture floats through her mind. If only I could see the label on the jar to help her open it, like I did with the pickles so many years ago.
my love, my wife ~
if locked away
Another poem written in memory of my Grandma Grace,
who struggled her final years with Alzheimer’s Disease,
and my Grandpa Leroy, who cared for her until the end.