After my wife’s weekly visit with her friend
who has early Alzheimer’s, she sheds quiet tears,
I listen to her speak of creeping dissolution.
On our honeymoon, I got to know who I wed,
watched her enjoy a bird show as if the various birds—
pigeons, toucans, cockatoos—could understand, appreciate.
The parrots riding trikes came last as the bells struck noon.
Before those birds finished, the audience rose and fled to their fare.
Not my wife. We stood alone and watched till the last bird was done.
She clapped and clapped as if those parrots knew, could take a bow.
Now she tells me of her friend who paints, stands or bows no more,
just lies glaze-eyed, hand-holding, when only fetal remains,
sympathy falls silent, no clapping heard,
that same heart and kindness, like the brilliant sun
that July day with the birds.
Originally published in The Literary Yard