At the memory care center, the parlor resembles
what was once my grandmother’s bedroom
but with artificial flowers.
Dixie cups swirl with pink ice cream,
the coffee table is flecked with powdered creamer,
O my teeth sing. On the subject of the residents, they all
smell sweet. Chocolate malts & Milk Duds smear their bathrobes
I love you, I say. I adore the order of their
days, the three square meals plus snacks
in between. They forget when they have eaten,
they are always hungry, No one feeds us,
complains Jane. We sing the National Anthem whenever we rise
for dinner, follow the leader. Do you live upstairs?
they ask every day. The corridors all end the same way.
The mind can resuscitate
anything when it is given enough
room to breathe. When the parking lot glows red, I know
I am in danger of learning
that the bed of a resident may
be empty. None of them asks
me to hold hands, but I often find a palm where I swear
my own heart ought to be. The memory
care center faces a street. Not a shift goes by without
Jane pressing her face to the glass & asking
would I like to get out of here,
Shhh she has her car keys.
There is no second story
at the memory care center, there are no
stairs, no elevator. I often trace the walls as I walk.
After I made my mind up about us,
the decision turned inside out.
Still, it is easy to get lost
when every direction ends
at the start. After work, I used to collapse
on the couch. Merlot, Ritz crackers,
crumbs between the cushions
surely. Our place in Houston was all hardwood & slate.
Alone, I’d vacuum compulsively. I hated the marks
of our living in that small space. Gloss of coconut
oil on the counter, his gym sock in the dryer &
somewhere, in the garage, tree ornaments
that never made it back to the box.
Glitter on my fingertips when I wrapped
them in towels. Hershey kiss stale in the mouth
of the knit frog I’d string with mistletoe,
the ultimate “haha,” I love you
sewn on the curl of frog-
prince tongue. Winter in Houston is always
far off. We moved here for him
but it was never enough. Of the minds of residents,
the handbook suggests
the present can only break
down. Show photos & other mementos
& smile, they can’t see what’s underneath.
In that suburb in Houston, our bedroom faced a lake.
For a brain with dementia,
gray matter blooms in the area
that isn’t already gray.
