Daddy I got three stars today, said the little one. I was the best in our class; it's true. But the father paid no attention. He didn't make a move. He just laid still as his daughter left the room.

Daddy I made new friends today, said the little one. And the other kids were very kind to me; it's true. But the father made no remark. He didn't even give a nod. He just laid still as his daughter leaves the room.

Daddy I won in a writing competition, said the little one. They even gave me a blue ribbon for my poem; it's true. But the father showed no smile. He didn't even look. He just laid still as his daughter was about to leave the room.

Little one, what are you doing here, asked the graveyard man. I was just talking to my father, sir; it's true. But your father is long gone, little one; he died a year ago. He's lying still inside his coffin — in this crypt, in this room.

I know, sir, said the little one. Pain creeping upon her face, so true. She said, to tell you frankly, I didn't get a three star either; I did so poorly on all my classes. I have no friends because I’m an orphan. My poem didn't win first prize. None of it were true.

But please see, please understand sir, begged the little one. With pain so bluntly piercing. The sorrow, scorchingly cold. Her sweet voice a contrast to the bitterness of her words, she goes:

When life is too much to bear, reality too blinding too face, and love too far away to follow, truth is what you make of it. Truth is what you wish it to be.

A friend to many
all of whom
were too lost
to remember her

But a foe to most
who remember
her thievery

I thought you left me.
Probably thinking I was
too much of a hassle.
You say you left a note,
didn’t see it.

Don’t look at me like that.
Like I’m not me,
like I’m a stranger
wearing my own skin.

You say we’ve had this conversation
three times today.
Well, I guess I just don’t remember.
Doesn’t mean i’m not trying to.

You say I left the stove on.
I say I didn’t.
We both believe we’re right,
but only one of us is losing their mind.

Sometimes I call you by the wrong name—
or ask where Mom is,
and you go quiet,
because we buried her last fall—
please forgive me..

This cruel disease
doesn’t just erase memories.
It erodes trust,
ruins families,
breaks everything…

The brittle oak legs hold up my taut canvas
They have endured years of feelings without buckling
And here they stand, facing me, asking me
When will you stop?

The splintered paintbrush drips colour on the soil beneath me Unwavering in the palm of my hand, it stays steady, solid
Yet it groans under the pressure of my fingers
Crying out for mercy with every stroke.

The canvas calls, beckoning my delivery of mind and heart
It whispers calm claims of serenity and peaceful hours
Whilst these are compelling words
There's only one use it can give to me.

The paint dries in the southern sun, untouchable but delicate
A portrait so realistic, only her stillness betrayed her
She gazes at me with lapis coloured eyes that don't move
If only I could recall who she was.

The memory of her explodes in my mind like a carpet bomb
But it's stripped away just as soon, ripped from my fingers
A crystalline tear cascades as I pummel the bare sod with fury
But until I remember again,

The brittle oak legs shake violently under my taut canvas.
The bent paintbrush leaks paint onto the soil beneath me.
The canvas whispers, beckoning my delivery of tears and anger.
The paint drips in the moonlight, distorted and warped.

I remember you
Holding both my hands
                                In your palm
Raised above my head
You bathed me
                 Sang nursery rhymes
With eyes that outshone surroundings

Now it is I
That holds both your hands
                       Talking of love
                       Reassurance
With eyes that outshine reality

can they see the ghosts in the gaps between each blink
in the space in which they’ve claimed their own ?

Each day.
All I see—
a shadow.
For me,
you left
long ago.

Each day,
we share
the same space,
but there is no
trace
of you—
the person
I once knew.

Each day,
I long to
look deep
into your eyes.
But I know
all I will ever see
is black—
my reflection
staring back.

You don’t laugh anymore.

Well,

not like you did before.

The woman, a nest of grey,
Takes you down to Chelsea Bay.

She stories you, and every time,
Mentions her garden, offers a lime.

A pile of words, so interspersed,
Grows so large, she loses sight of the first.

You scale the sentences, smile in hand,
Laughter, reveals, accusals grand.

She tells you, think differently, make circles of these lines
Use all the pieces of this fruity life, don’t dare discard the rind.

If minds had hands, as pontificate in tandem,
you’d hold hers steady, sliding addendum to addendum.

Then, saying goodbye, she extends once more a lime.
Forgetting, all too quickly, you’d already declined.

I watched her become numb.
I watched as nothing reached
past the fog surrounding her mind.

The constant disconnect between her and everything around her scared me.
When she stopped smiling with her eyes, it scared me.
When she became unrecognizable, it scared me.

Her death was a surprise to no one.
But it was a relief to some.
She had been a bright light in so many lives.
Her radiance and color were unlike anyone else.
Watching it dull into gray fog made us feel
like the whole world was losing color.

The funeral was as solemn as her last few months had been.
Not everyone had seen her descent into dullness.
Her dementia-muddled mind was uninterested
in the friends and family who did come to see her.

She lived as a dear friend to me and many others,
but she died a stranger to all. May she rest in color,
and may the people she left behind always remember
her vibrant life.

so scared of losing yourself
to a future disease
you forgot about the rage inside
and your family's grief

there's a lifetime of love here
but it's getting hard to see
this thing you think you're fighting
well it's really fighting me