A Good Visit

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