I'm going to end with a poem for my mom.
I'm those kind of people who will come in a certain outfit
to someplace and then have to wear the same outfit to go back
because if not, it's not lucky.
So I'm going to end with a poem to my mom.
She passed away October of 2013.
And she said, when I turn 80 years old,
I'm going to pass away.
And so I say, why are you bringing that energy to you?
And she said, no, I just know.
But by the time she passed away, she
didn't remember us because she had dementia.
So this one's called "Disordered Memory."
Now, every minute is a new day.
You ask the nurse, what is the hour?
Days fold into each other, codices, each page facing.
The face in the mirror is a stranger's.
You ask, when did I become that woman?
That can't be me.
I am not that old yet.
My husband's just home from the war.
What's my name?
I want to go home, though you are in your own bed, your room.
The faded color of morning, its angle is no longer familiar.
It's restless.
Most of the time, you say, I just
want to sleep that long sleep you never wake up
from, just dream.
But you say, today I'm fidgety, like I should dance or get out
of this bed, a good day.
Like never before, I've become quite interesting,
someone you want to spend time with.
But I can never help myself.
I want you to remember.
I say hello, Mom.
It's me.
Thank you so much.