Poetry

Who Am I?

I know something is wrong, getting forgetful, losing stuff.
Little things at first, but soon, I recognise that this is not right.
I sit here, my favourite chair, most days – long days I think.
No recognition; who is this man that brings me another cuppa.
He seems to do so much for me, these days, he isn’t my dad.
Dad has lots of hair, I remember so curly, can’t be my dad.
Keep hearing people saying; SHAME and she is only 53.

Good days, I remember Tom, this man who is always here. I think we are
married, third finger left hand a ring.  He’s a good man, I think!
Takes me to see the Doc for my check-up; I think he’s a Doc.
Listening thingy hanging from his neck, wants to listen to my chest.
Doc blows on it, making it warm, listening thingy not my chest, smile.
Doc speaks to the man with me, hey-up I’m here, not invisible,
feels like I’m being ignored, not a child, even if childhood seems like yesterday.

Hours just watching the moving pictures on the box in the corner
Coronation St always a favourite, where is Elsie Tanner? 
Young man, a woman, a little boy visit most weekends, I think.
Vague memories, then lucidity, he is my son, boy my grandson I’m told,
he makes me laugh and smile, good days, happy days.
Bad days; this boy taps my head, anyone at home he asks,
bad times I want to spank the little sod, my dad would.

Drifting in and out of time, this man Ted, Tom or is it Tim?
does so much, he looks tired, I’m tired, but I’m bloody angry, frustrated.
This man holds my wrists, I’m so angry, I’m crying, why me?
I know I love him, then he is a stranger, where are my Mum and Dad?
Their little girl needs them, angry, frustrated; I’m lonely in this place
full of people. Another home, no memories, just a crowd of blank faces,
just like mine in the mirror. Who am I?

Carol Robson