No Argument

 

I must not argue with her,

I tell myself.

Just listen,

Be present,

Tell the truth.

She is losing so much:

Not just the car

And the independence it represents,

But the ability to read,

To connect,

To recognize.

The gaps of memory,

Fill in with stories

And fears

Leading to "spells"

Of paranoia.

Impossible things

Seem possible to her,

Or at least seem preferred alternatives

To the missing

Time

Checkbook

Faces

Medicine

Money

Words

Life.

I do not argue with her,

Evidence being too fluid

When experience cannot be shared.

She forgets reasons 

But not the slights

Nestled deep

In the family tree.

They are her only weapons

Fighting a family

Fulfilling her fears.

I want to tap that fire,

Turn it away from dread

and focus it on creation.

Lose inhibition, Ma,

Lose the internalized editor,

The constant critic,

The doubt and the depression.

Lose anxiety;

Let go of concern.

Lose the illusions of identity

and embrace the you that remains.

But she cannot choose

the gaps.

And I cannot fathom

her suffering

despite my listening and

commitment to empathy.

This is a truth

I cannot argue with her.

[This post is part of the @Platea "Treeblogging" event.  It draws on work found here and here.  It also connects with my life and the lives of those close to me.  Sometimes the tree is a family tree.]