I dig in a garden of emotions
imagining a mom
who can still “mom”,
dementia diagnosis
the downshift of earlier this year.
Well before eggplant starts were even planted-
turning of lavender, crepe paper thin flowers
into oblong shadow, inky inches tucked beneath
sturdy leaves I move aside to stare at solid truth- the size of hanging fruit.
Or is it a vegetable? the color of morning I wake into almost every day evoking questions.
“Is the sun almost rising or should I still be asleep?”
Similar curious tightness of
“Will my mama make sense or not today when I call her?”
Short term memory frayed-
or maybe ratted is a better word,
impossible to untangle, tease out the truth.
Opposite of smooth first eggplant I’ve grown this summer,
now sitting next to me at five am on the bedside stand, so I can study its perfection;
dark assuredness eliciting a poem.
High summer’s/dementia’s tight, hot, itchy opposite-
the green and past purple crown
I watered into being.
My mama did the same for me and now can’t make
a decision to save her life,
the decision that will save her life.
Yes, eggplant black burns into my July, full bowl of similarly intense
seasonal pleasures and sorrows.
May her transition be as firm and smooth-
plucked, purple black, ready to finally know her way.