Long
before we knew the temperature of Daddy’s brain was shifting, so to
speak,
the
mercury inched upward.
Liquid
memories began to drip into the sea, but slowly, almost
imperceptibly, and no one noticed,
or
not much.
Mama
got annoyed, of course, convinced it was his quiet yet persistent way
to pay her back for all her past remarks that hurt him, the sins
she’d done, the kindnesses she’d overlooked.
When
doctors validated Daddy’s, well, condition, affixing it with labels
long and clinical, the guilt that she accepted, almost welcomed,
wasn’t something she could wave, a fan to cool him, slow the
glacial melting of his mind.
And
now, years later, it is more like global warming. Chunks of iceberg –
decades, occupations falling with great splashes to the salty sea of
tears we choke back as he asks another question that he asked before
and asks perhaps another six or seven times within the hour.
Where
is your mother?
What
am I doing here?
I
don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.
Where
is your mother?
What
am I doing here?
I
don’t know what’s going on. I feel so useless.
And
to be sure, a melting glacier has but little purpose.
Still,
it has a grandeur and a substance that is mighty,
that
is fierce, although diminishing a little every second,
and
more each passing day.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2017
