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Click hereShe shuffled to the piano
painfully, slowly,
supported
by the daughter
she no longer recalls.
Gnarled, stiff hands,
so fragile and thin,
grasp at sheet music
as unfamiliar as hieroglyphs.
She stared at those pages
and down at the keys
before finally, haltingly
plinking random notes.
This woman, once renowned
for her independence,
her stubbornness,
now frail and lost
within a home
she can't remember.
Playing piano in her
own private hell.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
----------
An Alzheimer's hell
Is not as bad for those with the disease
{they don't remember what they've lost};
The true hell's for those who remember
What the victims used to be.
Sharp images with your words here,Min...life's little cruel jokes, huh?
~Honey