by Annette B Fuller
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In memory of my mother who was a victim of Alzheimers
Expressionless eyes, blank stare
Talking to someone who isn't even there
Unable to leave her chair
Where, oh Lord, is my mother?
Who is this person there?
My mother was a worker, a softball player
Cooking Sunday dinner
Don't you even care?
She was forever doing for others
Taking care of any who knew her
Why my mother, of all mothers
Did you choose to be like this
Oh, to see her smile again
See her give the kids a kiss
I ask, Oh Lord, how can this be?
Then I begin to wonder...
Could it be to teach me
A lesson in humility?
Copyright ©2009 Annette B. Fuller
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|Reviewed by Regis Auffray
|Real and thought-provoking, Annette. I watched my father waste away and at the end, he did not even recognize his children let alone his grand children. Welcome to AD. Love and best wishes,