• dementia
• poetry
• neurology

I watch your eyes tracing my face.

Furrowed brows suggest blurred image.

Slow, slow, not in haste—

Mine is a forgotten visage,

Erased like tales of the village,

You fondly shared, from where you came.

I watch your eyes tracing my face,

And pray you will recall my name.

Your calloused hands will think of mine:

“We have held these some other place!”

The embers of your past will flame—

And I will hear and help to heal,

Waiting for signal or for sign.

Slow, slow, with hands to feel—

As I carry onward, blind,

Hoping that which I seek, I find.