Mommy, why does she stare? (age 25)

I wrote this when I found out about my grandmothers Alzheimer's


I can see her thru the glass.
Eyes clouded blue.
Crimson stains her lips.
A once full face,
now sags from wisdom.
her knowledge know’s little bounds.

She has my mother’s hands,
wrought from hard labor.
She touches the glass,
trying to speak to me.
Finger’s now calloused,
years of mending other’s shirts.

Her aged finger tips
outline my face,
as I return the favor,
trying to smooth the lines of time.

Mommy, can you see the women in the glass?
Why doe she stare as if she knows me?

Her breast sag
from the babes she has nursed.
Her womb stretched
from over use.

Legs hairy from lack of worth.
They use to carry her,
thru alfalfa and brome.
Now hobbled from work,
broken with time,
struggle to keep upright.
Blond pigtails
the boys always pulled,
thinned and greyed from horrors seen.
A long slender neck, now brittle.
and her pointed up turned nose
are all that remains, from her youth.

Mommy, can you see the lady in the glass?
Why does she stare as if she know’s me?


Clearing eyes,
a sanity remembered.
Gnarled hands grasp for what’s real,
wrest only splinters from a oak framed mirror.
I remember,
maunder words and death ridden breath.

She speaks to me,
no hint of defeat.
her posture is of defiance,
a trait from her father.
I remember,
heard is her confusing present.

Unambiguous voice,
ordering me look,
slowly my eyes focus
as though I just awoke

Mommy, do you see the woman in the mirror?
Why does she stare?