Who's that girl in my living room?
My mother-in-law no longer remembers
how to dress herself
cut her own food
find her way inside from the backyard.
We, her family, live on the wrong end of her telescope,
stars, drifting further away by the day,
difficult to distinguish, harder, still, to call by name.
I want to take her hands,
place them again onto the keyboard
she once could play so majestically,
hear a familiar tune suddenly slip
from head down to fingertips.
A last light of remembrance
before the darkness closes.
Graphic: Disappearing Eye
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