Mark Thalman

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March and April, 2008
 
 

SHORT TERM MEMORY LOSS

 

 

Mother, a Phi Beta Kappa,

who graduated second in her college class,

and could have become a doctor or lawyer,

although women back then

were not encouraged

to do such things,

now, cannot remember

where to find her glasses, keys, the car

left in a tow away zone,

ice cream and hamburger unthawing

in the trunk, golf clubs swimming

in milky blood.

 

She watches the same video of Lawrence Welk

three times in a month.

The toilet,

she forgets to flush.

 

Talking to me on the phone,

she will discuss only the weather,

and if I ask to talk to Father,

lays down the receiver

to look for him

and does not come back.

 

She knows she has trouble remembering

but can't recall why.  When her husband

explains the word Alzheimer's,

she tells him, "If I go insane,

I'll commit suicide."

 

Sitting in her favorite chair,

she compulsively clutches

her threadworn sweater,

a security blanket, while I

read her a story,

as she would to me,

before I could decipher

the words. 

 


Published in Poetry Motel and reprinted by Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose about Alzheimer's Disease, Kent State University

Email mark@markthalman.com