Ink and Water

“It’s raining here,
but we’re used to it,” I say.

You like to talk about the weather
because it’s easier.

Like the gray mist outside,
your mind is fogged over,
despairing for the clarity
of a forgotten cerulean sky.

We try to catch up on what’s new,
but it’s impossible.

The windshield wiper of your mind
splashes words away
before meaning can soak in.

“I’m good,” you insist.
“My memory is getting better.”

Through the phone,
the sound of frantic scribbles
says otherwise.

Scraps of paper litter about
in piles all around you,
as scattered as your thoughts.

Fear keeps you from throwing them away.
You would just as well discard your brain,
for paper is the only memory you have left.
Ink, your only link from past to present.

“I just found a note,” you say.
The one you wrote
just a moment ago.

Your thoughts slosh about,
waters rising to wash away
ink from paper,
memory from mind.

Drowning, you cling to the note
like a life preserver.

“What does this note mean?”

I explain the note.

Mind struggles for breath,
for relentless rain to stop,
for comprehension
to burn through black clouds
with piercing sunlight.

You suddenly notice your note again.
“What does this note mean?”

I explain the note again.

The swirling eddy spins us
in stranded circles.
Wind and spray strip
conversation from your grip.

You suddenly notice your note again.
“What does this note mean?”

Holding a conversation
is as useless
as holding back the tide—
the relentless surge
wearing away the shoreline
of your lucidity.

“Don’t worry about it, mom.
How’s the weather where you are?”

“It’s nice here.
I think my memory is getting better.”

“That’s great to hear, mom.
I hope you can sit outside
and enjoy the sun.”