Collecting sea shells as she walks the beach
In her pocket she absently drops them
Staring out as the waves crash to shore
The sunset on the horizon glowing golden
Voices of the gulls, screeching in the sky
Call to her of sorrow, as she lost the way
Eyes close tight, a tear rolls down her cheek
As she tries to remember better days
In her garden she plants lavender and roses
As in better days it had been
Then pulls the seedlings out again
A despair within, unseen
No matter how hard she tries
She can't recapture the past
No matter how long she cries
She can't make the image last
In better days she was well and whole
Her mind was free and clear
Those days suddenly slipped away
She can't remember why she's here
Staring at the pictures of loved ones
Surrounded lovingly in silver frames
She cries because somehow she knows
That in better days she knew their names
© Alison Pearce 2008
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Comments: 18
I could easily see this in my mind's eye; you've woven beautiful strands of imagery to those facing these types of struggles. I also thought you undergirded the struggle well with lovely sensorial descriptions for the reader to envision. Very moving.
Yes.
You break my heart, as I feel it so.
And, then, you build it up again; simply because you feel it too, and were brave or talented enough to show us that.
It is an evil, evil thing to steal the hearts and minds of the people who have EARNED the memories. It's worse than losing your pension or parents. It is worse than being homeless. It is the theft of all you are; all your family; and the theft of that person that you wanted to be. It is even the theft of who you were, and who you are today.
I cried when I read this. And I thought I was all cried out.
Blessed be. (Redundant, of course, because you ARE)
Wilka
In late life, memories are often our greatest comfort. Losing them is tragic.
Well done, Alison!
This is so sad.
Thank you for writing about it so beautifully.