What I Know About Alzheimer's

[71degrees]

I think this is a great edit.

Newest Edit

What I Know About Alzheimer’s

i. After Death

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
his own name -- Maybe a question mark here.

He’s buried now with a whirligig -- The whirligig could be its own poem, though I maybe getting ahead of myself.
beside his plot, a headstone etched
with his name and dates so others
will remember him, even if he couldn’t

His last years were beach sand,
a gift to be blown away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how all his names moved
farther and farther away

Sometimes, when I visited, I wondered
whether he was ashamed he could dream
at all.

ii. Before Death

His hands hold the new electric razor;
they can no longer be trusted
to the straight edge. He reminds me oddly
of an older model of a father: boned,
collapsible, something to be forgotten
in a deep closet. Pocked skin, his veneer
of fatigue; arms as if from a child’s drawing. - I'm not sure the article following the semicolon is complete. Child-like arms seems like a more concise way of saying this, but you would have to play along with the alliteration.

He asks me to how to use it and puts it to his face, -- You could put a comma after asks me and make the rest a question to add more guidance for the reader and enhance the sound quality of the poem. Just my opinion though.
as if wanting to scrape thin ice on a winter windshield.

No, here, Dad. Let me show you.

He watches in the mirror as I guide his finger
to the on/off switch, says with a cold-fact delivery,

I used to do this kind of stuff for you.

His dark eyes are hungry to remember; I feel my finger
on his finger, feel the calluses, his skin flaking into dust. -- calluses seems to be the strongest word in this stanza.

Yes, you did. Many times.

iii. Death Night

Father never took slow showers,
nor did I ever ask him about his dreams

over coffee or between bites of corn flakes
or raison toast with Skippy peanut butter. -- Did you mean raisin? The details provide a picture that I can relate to.

He never went religious, not even after Lisa; -- I don't think your article before the semicolon is complete.
I often fell asleep with his Twin Cities voice

on the radio, statically, like bags of salt,
selling London Luggage leather hand bags -- I think the alliteration is distracting. This poem seems to benefit from details and a more conversational tone.

or used cars from towns named Cadott
or Chippewa Falls, cities that have supplied -- I like the town names

the world with cozy children. There is no way
back from there; even when I used to wake

with him on the bed’s edge, I considered him
a genius in our city by the river near the trees.

I left some comments. Thanks for posting.

Thanks for your comments. Appreciate every one of them.

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Hi, 71, . You've really grown something very effective here. I like the subtitles guiding me. Here are a few thoughts I had when reading. Thanks for posting this, your work on it has been interesting and enjoyably heart wrenching reading.

Newest Edit

What I Know About Alzheimer’s

i. After Death

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
his own name
Did you wonder if he dreamed or if he knew his name in his dreams? If the latter, which IMO is more striking, you may want to consider a colon after wondered.

He’s buried now with a whirligig
beside his plot, a headstone etched
with his name and dates so others
will remember him, even if he couldn’t
Love the way this is wistful yet matter-of-fact at the same time.

His last years were beach sand,
a gift to be blown away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how all his names moved
farther and farther away

Sometimes, when I visited, I wondered
whether he was ashamed he could dream
at all.

ii. Before Death

His hands hold the new electric razor;
they can no longer be trusted
to the straight edge. He reminds me oddly
of an older model of a father: boned,
collapsible, something to be forgotten
in a deep closet. Pocked skin, his veneer
of fatigue; arms as if from a child’s drawing. Love this stick figure.
Older is iffy for me, I think you mean previous but age weighs so heavily here it seems to mean even older than the old he is. Maybe that is what you mean, I'm not sure. Even if you somehow mean both, this was a sticking point for me.

He asks me to how to use it and puts it to his face,
as if wanting to scrape thin ice on a winter windshield.

No, here, Dad. Let me show you.

He watches in the mirror as I guide his finger
to the on/off switch, says with a cold-fact delivery,

I used to do this kind of stuff for you.
The crux of the poem for me right in the center. The mix of a stray memory separated from the emotion that is usually tied to it is the heartbreaking truth. For me it makes "Yes, you did. Many times." superfluous.

His dark eyes are hungry to remember; I feel my finger
on his finger, feel the calluses, his skin flaking into dust.

Yes, you did. Many times.

iii. Death Night

Father never took slow showers,
nor did I ever ask him about his dreams

over coffee or between bites of corn flakes
or raison toast with Skippy peanut butter.
typo, raisin. I don't know that you need corn flakes when this line so beautifully brings the picture.

He never went religious, not even after Lisa;
I often fell asleep with his Twin Cities voice

on the radio, statically, like bags of salt,
selling London Luggage leather hand bags
I can't figure out the bags of salt.

or used cars from towns named Cadott
or Chippewa Falls, cities that have supplied

the world with cozy children. There is no way
back from there; even when I used to wake

with him on the bed’s edge, I considered him
a genius in our city by the river near the trees.
I'm not sure you need "even when." If it's to say that you still consider him a genius there might be a better word there.

A very satisfying ending. Thanks for the read.

Your comments are very helpful. Interesting how people interpret lines and/or images. Your "older is iffy" comment(s)…maybe it's a son-to-father thing, but I was in my mid-fifties when Dad died and I still felt like he was my father and I was the son (even though I have sons of my own who are grown). Not sure how to explain it, but Alzheimer's robs a person of their whole identity to such an extent, that I always tried to remember the "younger" father, hence the "child's drawing" image. I believe your comments are valid…just trying to explain my thinking w/the image.

Again, thanks. Very helpful.