What I Know About Alzheimer's

[71degrees]

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain

He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t

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

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all

[bena]

This is wonderful and yet horrible for me to read as am still grieving for my grandmother. I have posted at some of the morning pointe series here; I don't know if it's therapeutic or not. My therapist says it is, and I pay her a lot, so I suppose it must be, right?

I normally don't assume the poet is the N. but you can't write words like that without living through them.
It's a beautiful piece and I have no criticism or can see no fault; I'm sure that others might view it with a more critical eye, but I cannot. not now.

Hugs,

mel.

[Erthona]

Could use some periods. Some of the line breaks are odd as in the first stanza:

"I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain"

which could be

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered <"whether" to "did" so you don't have "whether" twice so close together>
the names of his grandchildren,
whether he ever left a path
and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain


Best,

Dale

[71degrees]

This is wonderful and yet horrible for me to read as am still grieving for my grandmother. I have posted at some of the morning pointe series here; I don't know if it's therapeutic or not. My therapist says it is, and I pay her a lot, so I suppose it must be, right?

I normally don't assume the poet is the N. but you can't write words like that without living through them.
It's a beautiful piece and I have no criticism or can see no fault; I'm sure that others might view it with a more critical eye, but I cannot. not now.

Hugs,

mel.

My father died five years ago. My last years w/him were beyond tough and I am just now coming to terms w/him and his place in the universe. Peace to you. Oh, and your therapist is correct. Trust her, but better yet, trust yourself when you feel like writing about it. It does hurt…but in a good way.

---

Could use some periods. Some of the line breaks are odd as in the first stanza:

"I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain"

which could be

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered <"whether" to "did" so you don't have "whether" twice so close together>
the names of his grandchildren,
whether he ever left a path
and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain


Best,

Dale

I agree the "rain" image needs work. Sometimes I just need to get it down while it's rolling around in my head. Thank you.

[just mercedes]

I wondered the same about my mother. She died three years ago; her last three years were harder for me than for her. I like your poem, restrained, but the full emotional landscape is there.

I agree with Dale about punctuation and line breaks needing some attention, but that's just cosmetic. "pouring rain" is a tired phrase.

Thanks for posting this.

[71degrees]

I wondered the same about my mother. She died three years ago; her last three years were harder for me than for her. I like your poem, restrained, but the full emotional landscape is there.

I agree with Dale about punctuation and line breaks needing some attention, but that's just cosmetic. "pouring rain" is a tired phrase.

Thanks for posting this.

Thanks for your comments. I dropped the "rain" image altogether in my rewrite. You are correct.

Sorry about your mother. Folks w/Alzheimer's are at an odd peace. Much harder for the visitors. It's like talking to a painting, only the painting breathes.

I have addressed a couple of the line breaks. Thanks. Not a big fan of full stops. Will probably keep the punctuation as is.

[Brownlie]

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed, -- You might want to play with the line order here When father dreamed/ I've always wondered. Just an option you may want to explore. However, you could also experiment with showing the phrase "wonder." The fact that the speaker is asking questions demonstrates this concept already.

whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away, -- I think you might be able to replace that "and" with a semicolon. I'm not quite sure though.

yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain --- Maybe a period here. This seems to be recalling an incident that occurred that may benefit from being explained a little more clearly.


He’s buried now with a playground -- Playground is a pretty good noun, but relatively abstract. What are the exact items in a playground?

beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others -- You could quote the exact phrasing on the headstone.
will remember, even if he couldn’t

His last years were sand, a gift
to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how the voices and names moved
farther and farther away -- Maybe a comma before and or a line break after the first farther to accentuate the point.

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed -- Wondered is good because it adds some unity with the word at the beginning, but it is also repeating a word.
that he had been dreaming at all -- Maybe a period after all

I've left some comments that may be able to help. Here is a semicolon rule that you probably already know that I'll post.

Rule 3. Use a semicolon to separate units of a series when one or more of the units contain commas.

Incorrect: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho, Springfield, California, Alamo, Tennessee, and other places as well.

Note that with only commas, that sentence is hopeless.

Correct: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho; Springfield, California; Alamo, Tennessee; and other places as well.


My dealings with this disease were sporadic. I saw glimpses of my Grandfather every few years in an old age home, and he would always yell at his wife. Thanks for posting.

[bena]

Ok brownie you've confused me now. (yes, I left out the L in your name intentionally.)

I know that rule, but what does it have to do with this poem? (am I missing something?)

[71degrees]

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed, -- You might want to play with the line order here When father dreamed/ I've always wondered. Just an option you may want to explore. However, you could also experiment with showing the phrase "wonder." The fact that the speaker is asking questions demonstrates this concept already.

whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away, -- I think you might be able to replace that "and" with a semicolon. I'm not quite sure though.

yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain --- Maybe a period here. This seems to be recalling an incident that occurred that may benefit from being explained a little more clearly.


He’s buried now with a playground -- Playground is a pretty good noun, but relatively abstract. What are the exact items in a playground?

beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others -- You could quote the exact phrasing on the headstone.
will remember, even if he couldn’t

His last years were sand, a gift
to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how the voices and names moved
farther and farther away -- Maybe a comma before and or a line break after the first farther to accentuate the point.

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed -- Wondered is good because it adds some unity with the word at the beginning, but it is also repeating a word.
that he had been dreaming at all -- Maybe a period after all

I've left some comments that may be able to help. Here is a semicolon rule that you probably already know that I'll post.

Rule 3. Use a semicolon to separate units of a series when one or more of the units contain commas.

Incorrect: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho, Springfield, California, Alamo, Tennessee, and other places as well.

Note that with only commas, that sentence is hopeless.

Correct: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho; Springfield, California; Alamo, Tennessee; and other places as well.


My dealings with this disease were sporadic. I saw glimpses of my Grandfather every few years in an old age home, and he would always yell at his wife. Thanks for posting.

Appreciate the comments about the poem. Don't understand the semi-colon lesson???

I also don't mind playing around with the "wonder" images. That makes sense. But the word is included in statements, not questions. Also, not sure I'm following your comment about "playground"...do you really think the poem would benefit from having playground equipment in the poem? Or were you expecting a specific piece? Just curious...

[Brownlie]

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed, -- You might want to play with the line order here When father dreamed/ I've always wondered. Just an option you may want to explore. However, you could also experiment with showing the phrase "wonder." The fact that the speaker is asking questions demonstrates this concept already.

whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away, -- I think you might be able to replace that "and" with a semicolon. I'm not quite sure though.

yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain --- Maybe a period here. This seems to be recalling an incident that occurred that may benefit from being explained a little more clearly.


He’s buried now with a playground -- Playground is a pretty good noun, but relatively abstract. What are the exact items in a playground?

beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others -- You could quote the exact phrasing on the headstone.
will remember, even if he couldn’t

His last years were sand, a gift
to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how the voices and names moved
farther and farther away -- Maybe a comma before and or a line break after the first farther to accentuate the point.

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed -- Wondered is good because it adds some unity with the word at the beginning, but it is also repeating a word.
that he had been dreaming at all -- Maybe a period after all

I've left some comments that may be able to help. Here is a semicolon rule that you probably already know that I'll post.

Rule 3. Use a semicolon to separate units of a series when one or more of the units contain commas.

Incorrect: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho, Springfield, California, Alamo, Tennessee, and other places as well.

Note that with only commas, that sentence is hopeless.

Correct: The conference has people who have come from Moscow, Idaho; Springfield, California; Alamo, Tennessee; and other places as well.


My dealings with this disease were sporadic. I saw glimpses of my Grandfather every few years in an old age home, and he would always yell at his wife. Thanks for posting.

Appreciate the comments about the poem. Don't understand the semi-colon lesson???

I also don't mind playing around with the "wonder" images. That makes sense. But the word is included in statements, not questions. Also, not sure I'm following your comment about "playground"...do you really think the poem would benefit from having playground equipment in the poem? Or were you expecting a specific piece? Just curious...

Well, I think specific pieces of playground equipment could be used in the poem. He's buried next to a metallic slide (even this detail is not all that good, how does the slide relate to the senses is it hot, smooth, Shiny, etc.), or even sandbox would be more powerful. If you don't want to add more language you may be able to find a piece of playground equipment that provides an image and works to represent the more abstract idea of "Playground." (keep in mind my linguistics are iffy). Most of the information I've provided here is like my semicolon lesson; its just some ideas that may be useful, but it is probably information you already know. Thanks for posting.

[71degrees]

Original Version
I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain

He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t

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

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all


Edit #1
What I Know About Alzheimer’s

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
the names of his grandchildren

He’s buried now with a whirligig
beside his urn, a headstone etched
in his name and dates so others
will remember him, even if he couldn’t

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

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

[QDeathstar]

I think instead of "others", "we" would be be a better fit.

---

Original Version
I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain

He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t

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

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all


Edit #1
What I Know About Alzheimer’s

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
the names of his grandchildren .

He’s buried now with a whirligig
beside his urn, a headstone etched I thought urns were only used in cremations?
in his name and dates so othersi'd suggest "we" here
will remember him, even if he couldn’t .

His last years were beach sand,
a gift to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how all the names moved
farther and farther awayi think this line needs fewer farthers and more imagery, also .

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

[71degrees]

I think instead of "others", "we" would be be a better fit.

---

Original Version
I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain

He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t

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

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all


Edit #1
What I Know About Alzheimer’s

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
the names of his grandchildren .

He’s buried now with a whirligig
beside his urn, a headstone etched I thought urns were only used in cremations?
in his name and dates so othersi'd suggest "we" here
will remember him, even if he couldn’t .

His last years were beach sand,
a gift to be taken away; Alzheimer’s
was how his distance widened,
how all the names moved
farther and farther awayi think this line needs fewer farthers and more imagery, also .

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

Your "urn" comment is spot on. Thank you.

---

Hello. I think this poem is very beautiful and honest, and kind of brutally so. I think that maybe you were just scratching the surface of something bigger. [/size][/font]

Hello Rachel Deavers. You are so right.

[71degrees]

Newest Edit

What I Know About Alzheimer’s

i. After Death

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
his own name

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

[Brownlie]

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.

[ellajam]

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.

[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.

---

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.

[LorettaYoung]

I’ve always wondered
when father dreamed,
whether he remembered the names
of his grandchildren, whether he ever
left a path and wandered away,
yet was able to return,
even in a pouring rain

He’s buried now with a playground
beside his cemetery, with a headstone
etched in name and numbers so others
will remember, even if he couldn’t

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

Sometimes, when I watched him,
I wondered whether he was ashamed
that he had been dreaming at all

---

Hi 71: You have some great advice, I agree strongly about "did" he remember instead of whether, and in S2 possibly "did he remember the grand kid's names". Otherwise, I think it is very well done. I have had such patients, and in time, peoples emotions change to wondering instead of trauma; you expressed that wondering well. Best Loretta

[Truerenigma]

Newest Edit

What I Know About Alzheimer’s

i. After Death

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
his own name

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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 have to say that I very much like #3. I find it delicate and moving, and quite fine.

# 1: when you are drafting a poem you write anything and everything to get you to the end. I'm not sure that 1 is needed at all. Pardon my saying it though, please.

In #2 there is a shift farther away from the abstract, and lines and edges begin to get harder as they are pulled into focus. I get the sense that the poet is being to find the words. The final line is merely an inturruption this reader.

# 3 is the poem. Only here does the poem race to the finish. The imagery is very fine. Every line is pointed toward where the poem is taking the reader, which is a very sharply focused view of this human being, followed by a pefect zoom out perspective, with excellent sonics. We get a sense through the imagery of who he was and what was happening to him. Good work. very good.

The only suggestion I could possibly think to offer is maybe using Pines, or the specific type of tree as the last word of the poem. But I love it all the same as is.

[71degrees]

Newest Edit

What I Know About Alzheimer’s

i. After Death

I’ve always wondered
if father dreamed, did he remember
his own name

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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 have to say that I very much like #3. I find it delicate and moving, and quite fine.

# 1: when you are drafting a poem you write anything and everything to get you to the end. I'm not sure that 1 is needed at all. Pardon my saying it though, please.

In #2 there is a shift farther away from the abstract, and lines and edges begin to get harder as they are pulled into focus. I get the sense that the poet is being to find the words. The final line is merely an inturruption this reader.

# 3 is the poem. Only here does the poem race to the finish. The imagery is very fine. Every line is pointed toward where the poem is taking the reader, which is a very sharply focused view of this human being, followed by a pefect zoom out perspective, with excellent sonics. We get a sense through the imagery of who he was and what was happening to him. Good work. very good.

The only suggestion I could possibly think to offer is maybe using Pines, or the specific type of tree as the last word of the poem. But I love it all the same as is.

Thank you for your encouragement. I'm listening.

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