Although dementia had ravaged her mind, She came to me in a dream. We sat across from each other, On pure white benches, Within a pure white room. . . We talked and smiled and laughed, And it all made sense. Her voice was as kind and gentle, As I always remembered it to be. My heart filled to bursting, Just to be with her again. Looking over my shoulder, I saw two dark-suited men, Standing against a white wall. Their arms folded across their chests, Their faces stern, eyes unblinking. I turned back to her, And she smiled shyly, Her eyes as inquisitive as a child’s, A look of wonder at why I wondered, At the purpose of the men. Her smile stopped. Her brows furrowed, In the ultimate understanding, We all will face. She slumped slowly forward, And I caught her, easing her to the floor, Reminded of her stroke, In the middle of the grocery store, And how embarrassed and apologetic she had been. I did not want her to feel that shame now. I held her in my arms then, For the final time. I gently brushed her hair to the side, And tried to smile, to stay strong. “Come with me,” she whispered. “There’s something I want you to see.” “I can’t go Mom.” And my tears fell, As I held her tight. “And I don’t want you to go. Not yet. Not ever.” “Come with me,” she whispered. And the bright white of the room grew, Blinding and engulfing all. I awoke, cheeks wet, My heart torn once again. It was the second of three times, I would lose her that year. --William Martin |
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William Martin's PoemsHere I'll share just some of my poems. Please feel free to give a 'like' and or comment! Archives
May 2025
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