Jean died this week of Alzheimer’s.
Four years and a bit she lived near.
For daughter and son-in-law,
It was love in action,
And it was bitter and hard,
And I watched them in their pain,
Tethered to the house, to the constant care,
Burdened by the weight of selfishness that needs
Yet again to be uprooted day by day.
Did any of us expect this?
Is this not precisely life?
I saw, too, a granddaughter come to visit
And say, “I love you, Grandma,” with
Such love in eyes and voice
That even though the mind might be destroyed,
The spirit must recognize this love.
It must.
Did any of us expect this?
Is this, too, not precisely life?
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