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The Hurt of Alzheimer's
by Bernard Howe

The hurt that comes to me,
when I go to see our mother.
She can't remember who I am,
or even my little brother.

The mind is slowly leaving,
and she's in another world.
She just wants to lie there,
all twisted and curled.

We all feel so useless,
because we miss her love.
But we know that she's closer,
to joining God above.

For only if we could enjoy,
just part of one more day.
There would be so many things,
that my heart would have me say.

For my memories of her,
are not of living like this.
It's all the growing up,
and its love that I do miss.
Bernard Howe
Copyright 2002
http://members.cox.net/berniehpoetry/
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