Momma

Your green eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them. You’ve been questing your whole life, but this level of intensity is in the stratosphere. Your gaze pierces and holds me. It demands answers, and I have none.

I am mesmerized by the emotions moving across your face. They are fireworks rising and unfolding, things of brilliant beauty. A symphony of words accompany them, and I wonder from where all this creativity arises?

I analyze each phrase you weave into a tapestry of saturated colors. That crying girl with the broken ankle that you endeavor to soothe is you on your grandfather’s farm when your sibs didn’t believe you were hurt. The knight on the white steed that you reward with all your gold is your son-in-law. The muscular stone mason carrying great blocks for the cathedral, whom your heart breaks for, is your son. Those women with the matching smiles are you, your mother, and your daughter.

The photo of those women is thirty years old. Granny is gone and I am gray. Am I so different that you can’t see me? If am the shining goddess in your story, then why can’t I bring you back to me? Where are you now and where will you go?


Dementia is heartbreaking. I can also be beautiful, which makes it cut deeply. I deal with it by writing about it: Daughter, Safety Matters, Today. Music helps too. Today, it’s ELO – I’m Alive (lyrics)

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “where”. 

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