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Thursday, 13 December 2018 Contact Us

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A Good Visit

[Poetry (General--not Contest)]
Although dementia had ravaged her mind,

She came to me in a dream.

We sat across from each other,

On pure white benches,

Within a pure white room.


We talked and smiled and laughed,

And it all made sense.

Her voice was as kind and gentle,

As I always remembered it to be.


My heart filled to bursting,

Just to be with her again.


Looking over my shoulder,

I saw two dark-suited men,

Standing against a white wall.

Their arms folded across their chests,

Their faces stern, eyes unblinking.


I turned back to her,

And she smiled tentatively,

Her eyes as inquisitive as a child’s,

A look of wonder at why I wondered,

About the purpose of the men.


Her smile stopped.

Her brows furrowed,

In ultimate understanding,

We all will face.

She slumped slowly forward,

And I caught her, easing her to the floor,

Reminded of her stroke,

In the middle of the grocery store,

And how embarrassed and apologetic she had been.


I didn’t want her to feel that shame now.


I held her in my arms then,

For the final time.

I gently brushed her hair to the side,

And tried to smile, to stay strong.


“Come with me,” she whispered.

“There’s something I want you to see.”


“I can’t go Mom.” And my tears dropped,

Gently landing on her cheek.

“And I don’t want you to go. Not yet.

Not ever.”


“Come with me,” she whispered.


And the bright white of the room grew,

Blinding and engulfing all.


I awoke, cheeks wet,

My heart torn once again.

It was the second of three times,

I would lose her that year.


                                                --William Martin

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