by Chris Buchanan
I’m the old man with dementia who
used to be an author.
I wrote this before all that happened. I was
that the books I’ve collected might
still be where they are, neglected,
stained with stale coffee by weary sons
too dry-eyed to read.
Carers now urge me to rhyme as
I did, as if I could, and loved ones
pushing back their lives, putting up with
mine and their passive aggression
(as they know I would for them if
I could). Wishing I would die as
now they mouth ‘thanks’
to a carer, or a lover with a petrified smile,
trying to help. Let this do
ah, how true that forgetting is simply such an immense fear.
Couldn’t agree more. The thought of it scares the life out of me.