But what if
They are your parents,
The ones for whom you
Were never good enough,
Never excelled enough,
Never did enough things to brag about?
But what if
They are shattered into incomprehension,
Fragments of memory
And lack of comprehension
With flashes of recognition,
Before they call you
By a wrong name?
But what if
All the yesterdays together
Have become legends and lies,
Tall tales and myths,
No ownership taken
When signatures go unrecognized?
But what if
Never having heard the sound of shatter
You are ankle-deep in the fragments,
Sinking deeper with each step,
Already deaf to the cries
Of those calling you to rescue yourself?
But what if
You realize many of the fragments are you?
My mother has advanced dementia and my father is… not yet officially diagnosed. They live in Illinois; we live in Pennsylvania. My sister (who lives in California, but has power of attorney) is trying to take care of them with monthly visits; they refuse to keep strangers in the house, so three attempts at getting local help failed. My sister is working on getting them into a facility.
For years they told us we had nothing to worry about, that they had a plan to go into assisted living, that all was taken care of. Since my mother used to plan this sort of thing for other people for a living, we accepted their statements as truth — and never pressed for details to double-check them. Only an untrusting, smart-ass son would think he could do better than his mother, the professional…
There was no plan. Not that my sister can find. They won’t move.
Shards and fragments. And bare feet for walking.
