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Maybe everything is getting too flux for us.  The timelessness of her dementia is no stay against confusion, even if her silence suggests a form.  The telephone fails as vehicle because there’s no cargo, only air.  It’s not air to breathe, but to hear through; I listen for sounds around my mother, not for hers.  She’s there so long as Jimmy Stewart speaks, or John Wayne, or there’s “A day to show the women in our lives / Our appreciation for everything they do.”  Her breath is doing, her sitting.  Mine is to attend her voice’s passing.  I thought bodies rose in the sky, wondered why I couldn’t see them go.  Hers was  the bad sense of direction.

 

 

–28 April 2011