The past two days have been torturous for my mother. 89 years old,controlled by Alzheimer's, battling pneumonia and in congestive heart failure, she waged war on everyone and everything around her as she was taken from the Alzheimer's facility where she lived for the past several years and was admitted to the hospital yesterday. My sisters and technology enabled me to be in the loop today while they were there physically and I was at work. Texts, and emails, and phone calls kept me abreast of her medical condition and escalating fears that manifested themselves in loud screams and profanity. I will be with her in the morning to try my best to soothe her raging spirit despite knowing she no longer recognizes her four daughters. Tonight I need her words to soothe me as I prepare myself emotionally for what lies ahead. I browsed through the books of poems she has written looking for solace and chose this one.
The melody that whirls in my brain
has the depth of a symphony.
The song that bursts from my lips
makes the birds weep at their failure.
My feet dance with the wild abandon
of roving gypsy tribes.
Joy strains through every pore
like the flowing sap in the springtime.
With the crackle of a raging fire
I am consumed by love.
Her poem reminds me of her favorite song that I used to sing when a part of our church folk group.
This is the mother I once had. If only she could be free to feel this way again.
The Byrds- Turn, Turn, Turn