about my great-grandfather, who lost his wife and his sight in 1989, and died of Alzheimer’s in 1998
I
She was your life,
The woman who strained your gumbo
And bought you doughnuts
And argued with you every second.
So you shook your fist at God
And cursed him
When he took her.
She was your joy,
The little girl who sat on your lap
And shared your canned peaches
And sipped the beer you offered.
So you shook your fist at God
And cursed him
When he took her.
It was your freedom,
The sight that let you drive away
And escape everyone
And watch the fishing boats at night.
So you shook your fist at God
And cursed him
When he took it.
It was your enemy,
The memory that brought you pain
And revived the death, loss, and darkness
And wouldn’t let you forget your curses.
But you’ll lie in a bed
And never realize
That he took it.
II
Their names were Robert and Canary
Those two parakeets you bought me
Well you must remember them
And you built me a playhouse
It had a little screen door
Surely there’s some recollection
All those Rainbow Brite dolls
LaLa Orange and Twink and the rest
Twink was a sprite
You don’t know me
We dyed all those eggs every Easter
Dozens and dozens of them
Remember all those colors
You ate all those lady fingers
And boiled all those crawfish
You know your good barbecue sauce
I watched the Jeffersons with you
You gave me sips of beer
The Jeffersons made you laugh
You don’t know me
We sat on the swing every night
Ate those Pringles and peaches
Pears too if you recall
I wrote to you a lot when we moved
You took me to Mardi Gras
That was in fifth grade
You gave me heavy ziploc bags
They were full of quarters
Remember all those quarters
You don’t know me
I prayed for you every night
That God would open your eyes
Instead he empties your head
I wrote some stories about you
You would have liked them
You loved me once
I remember even if you don’t
I was your Elda Badon
You don’t know Elda
You knew me once
III
Open your mind before it’s empty,
Soften your heart before it’s cold;
Your blindness is not physical –
Your hate is your hell.
Don’t just lie there
And let your memories
Be emptied
Like your bakery boxes.
This world void of light
Can’t be blamed on a careless doctor;
You can’t feel your way
Along a web of strings.
Your anger can’t be cooled
Under a ceiling fan;
You can’t strain away your pain
And sip a thin broth of denial.
You can’t drive away from this –
A foot on the accelerator
Won’t be your salvation.
It’s a dead end, old man.
Turn around
Or stare at the wall.
IV
You saw the headstone,
The cool marble that bore her name.
But you never saw her when you had her.
You could hear your family
Taking furniture from the house.
But you never listened to them before.
You know that your memories
Are slipping from your mind.
But you never wanted them anyway.
V
You’ll be all dressed up.
Your tattoo might be covered.
Your face will be serene;
They’ll plaster on a smile
And those vacant eyes,
So blue and distant,
Won’t bother anyone
From under your closed lids.
They’ll say nice things
And not mean a word.
The hands you clenched
At God and heaven
Will grasp a cross.
They might make you
Wear your teeth.