I can write about the poem, I can write about myself, or I can write about my mother; but it’s plain to see I can’t write about one, without writing about the others, which is why I wrote the poem in the first place — that, and the simple fact that on that day in 2018, it was her birthday, the fifth we marked since her passing. I did, in effect, what I always do: I wrote a condensed version of our life story using elements that surfaced in the moment, each of which I can trace to its memory source, to things she had told me, to things she had done, to her sad yet strangely beautiful undoing by Alzheimer’s Disease. And so I will leave the three of us bound just as we are, as life intended.
~
[ 1970 ]
Categories: Annotations and Elucidations
Tags: Alzheimer’s Disease, Death, Memory, My Mother, Poems, Writing
William Michaelian 