Against Lethe

My sister and her daughter

pack away what they can

of our mother’s precious things—

jewelry, a box of letters,

photos of her children,

dead daughter, mother, father,

already folded like gowns

deep in the drawers of her brain—

fragile places we pray

amyloid plaques and tau tangles

will not rob before her tired heart gives out,

mercifully holds the cup to her lips

dripping with the waters of Mnemosyne.

Instead, we watch her pace the shore,

waiting for her ferry across Lethe.

May she not cross before she dies.

May we not have to say goodbye twice.

When she asks to return home

to gather her things— the car,

the couch, the king-size bed and flat screen TV—

all she hopes to squeeze

into the new assisted living condo

she and her husband will never reach—

no one has the heart to tell the truth.

All is at auction as we speak.       

There will be no material reunion.

We salve her heart with empty promises.

To tell otherwise, the specialist says,

to reorient her to reality, would just be cruel.

My heart rails against the lie

that silences my desire to not steal

from her the noble truth of suffering,

this woman whose body opened

like a bleeding eye to birth me,

cut upon the table,

who will carry her home

on proud, rock shoulders

into the belly of the earth.

Her mother will catch her.

My sister will kiss her on the mouth.

Mom will sob into her curls.

That night, the three of them will sleep,

tangled in her bed, dreaming of us.