This poem was inspired by my mom, who for eleven years was constantly on my mind. 
Since she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, our relationship had changed in many ways, 
the best thing was we became much closer. 


 


 Snapshots of Alz.

   “Who’s that?” Mom gasps at her ninety-one-year-old reflection in the mirror. 
She needs help now finding her room. 
Today, she got lost on the way to the dining room. 
A few weeks ago, another resident hit her. The care workers didn’t see what happened. 
This morning, Mom made a fuss about using her walker: 
“They’re for old people.” 
From the sidewalk, she ogles the red cars, especially convertibles, the shinier the better. 
She’s going to buy herself one. 
She upset her son on his last visit; she thought he was her brother. 
All the decks at the home are missing cards.
 So, we play Rummy with the deck I keep in my car. 
Mom usually wins. 
The puzzles are also missing pieces; some have been known to show up in a neighbour’s bed. 
She’s an artist now and when she’s not coloring, 
her chin rests on her chest, eyes closed. 
Mom slapped a woman last week who wouldn’t stop screaming. 
The screaming stopped. 
Most days Mom calls me when the light is fading. 
She’s anxious because she needs to get home to make Dad’s dinner. 
She has somehow gotten the idea that I have her car,
and is adamant that I bring it back right now. 
She needs to catch the ferry; 
Dad will be wondering where she is.