Not For The Timid

I picked her up at the airport, hollow, practically deserted.
“She has Alzheimer’s.”
They quickly gave me a pass to meet her at the gate.
Calling a sweetheart while I wait, wishing to be drunk.
She arrives 80, but girlish, looking happy, lucid and giddy.

It’s so easy when she’s like this to get a tiny bit of hope, like maybe the whole thing has been a bad dream and there she is my mom and she’ll come to me and love me and touch me and things will be different.



Essays and Images About Everything

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