Karen

I'm going to see a friend today.
Not the 'hang out' sort --more
the talk on the phone where we share
life stuff, writing, and Detroit Tiger things.
She is every inch a lady,
incredibly brilliant, well-read,
a sticker for correct grammar
and she is dying.

Dementia and a 'one in a million'
wasting disease are taking
their wretched toll. She is, though,
truly a 'one in a million.'
I'm supposed to be
bringing her some of my poetry to read,
but my printer died last night.
Wanted to be able to
leave it behind.

I remember the last time
I saw her: feisty, elegant,
full of spit and vinegar,
energetic and full of stories.
Inside, she's still all of those things.
Outside, she is bedridden,
reduced to few words,
a shadow of herself.
I need to keep the lady I know
in front of the person I will see.

Railing at the fates: this isn't fair,
she doesn't deserve to be locked
inside her mind in a body that isn't working.
I can go and be there, but there is nothing
I can do to help or fix. It is such a helpless feeling
when there is nothing one wouldn't do.
Hanging on to the good, the stories,
the magic she brought to everything
she's ever done, sung, or written.

She is Camelot and Cheerio,
Dicken and the Welsh language.
Strange that comes to mind
when she hardly has language at all now.
Nothing should ever silence anyone.
Especially when they still have so much to say.

I am not unique to feel this way.
So many before me have
experienced this with those whom
they love. And those whom they've had
to let go. It's not easy. But then,
it shouldn't be, I suppose. One must feel
grateful to have been friends with her
for thirty-some-odd years. But I'm greedy
and I want more time.