He shifts in his chair, 

Gaze falls somewhere between me and the floor

Shoulders roll forward like falling boulders. 

The mountainside of his back falls away 

In a crumblin avalanche of weariness. 

 

Distant sounds float in from the hallway, familiar voices utter unfamiliar words.  

We sit in communal silence

Share in the ancient art of eavesdropping.  

 

We’ve been fairly successful so far, all things considered….He’s so old to have undergone such an invasive surgery, we are pleasantly surprised with his progress...But, ma’am, I do have to warn you--his memory loss seems pretty progressive.  You might want to consider an in-home aide, someone to make sure he takes his meds and eats well. 

 

As the words grow more and more alien, 

less like the ones we knew and loved, he looks up  

 

I hate when they talk about me, 

 

He confesses.  I hate it too.  With each new word, I see the image of him torn away, 

Replacing my real and living grandfather with a paper-mache man that I’ve never met before.