AT THE HOME
The last thing she remembered was Brahms.
She lay peacefully under the coverlet
she had saved since the boy's childhood
in hopes he would return someday
and note her faithfulness.
"Brahms," she said, "my favorite."
Then her eyes clouded
the way they had been doing lately
when she took to wandering.
"Do you know who I am?" I asked.
No recognition, pulling away slowly,
stripped of the agitation
that marked the previous week.
Not knowing that death is nigh may be amiable, after
all.
Who knows where she is--in a summer garden
with the bees reeling
or in the stillness of a winter walk
or in a time travel escapade
back to overladen wagon trains
with their prospects of gold?
Somewhere in the mush of the brain's circuitry,
in her confusion and my helplessness,
it comforts me to think
she does hear Brahms.
Photo Credit: Robert Janz
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