A Poetic Interlude

A Poetic Interlude

I had a dear friend, whom I had known since I first came back to England in the early 1970s. When she developed dementia, her family moved her into a care home, near to where they lived, and I had not seen her for a while.  When I visited her, I was shocked at the deterioration of her senses, her mind, her memory.  She still had the outward appearance of my friend, but did she know who I was?  and, more importantly, where was she?

I was inspired to write this poem......

Where Is My Friend?

Where is my friend? Hidden
Beneath the tortuous pathways
Of a confused mind.
Where is the steely Matron? - Full of wit
And flashes of wicked inspiration?

She's hiding now, in this frail frame of mind;
Just sitting there, crumpled in her chair.
(It doesn't even look comfortable).
She leans forward, conspiratorially. Oh, yes,
She has all the right vocabulary.

All the right words, from the time when
Her thoughts were razor-sharp, cutting edge.
She says, "I have....." (and now she's counting,
Counting slowly, deliberately, a child again,
Using all her fingers and toes....)

Triumphantly, the answer comes:
"I have eight sons, you know!"
I hear her call me - call me by another name.
She announces loudly to a passing nurse:
"Of course it's her!" She's insistent.

Then puzzlement flits across her face,
Coupled with a sudden, frightening
Uncertainty - so painful to see.
Is she thinking, "Where is my friend?"
Like me?