We’d try to catch her before
she got to the door dressed in layers
of sweaters or nothing at all
but socks and a bra.
She’d call out like a kid,
I’m going sailing with Dad!
Back then, I didn’t know to smile and wave,
slip out the back, meet her at the door.
Why Ann! she would have said,
the lake evaporating from her mind,
Come in. It’s so nice to see you!
My father tried to reason with her.
Dear, it’s cold out.
The lake is miles away.
Your father won’t be there.
He was buried years ago.
She’d raise her hand to her mouth,
No one told me he died!
and tears sprang to her eyes.
I’d lead her back to her room
where clothes lay scattered
like lost feathers.
For a while she read my face
as if it were a map to her world.
At dinner, my father and I
exchanged looks
when she poured pepper
into her water,
stirred it with a fork.
Something funny’s going on
around here, she said.
Her meat and peas grew cold.
When we moved her to the home
I propped a smile on my lips,
learned to speak a new language.
On a weekend outing she announced,
I’m never going back to that prison!
I said, How ‘bout we do something fun.
She clapped her hands, Let’s go for a ride!
I drove her down dark roads back to the home.
In the car, she squeezed my hand,
You’re the only one I trust.
These days, words escape her.
Unable to walk, she sits for hours,
her legs still as some forgotten thought.
Head bobbing, the weight
of her chin pulls her sideways
until her trunk rests
against the edge of her chair.
What I’d give for another chance
to chase her down the drive.
When I caught her, I’d slip my hand
in hers, smile for real and say,
Let’s go sailing on this fine day.
