Once you staggered towards me with a milk bottle in your hand, determined to close the space between us that shoved you further from me with each passing second.
I thought of milk at school, passed round at break times – glass bottles and thin striped straw stuck through the gleaming silver top.
I thought of mother’s milk, nurturing and necessary to grow that tiny baby into a real person with thoughts, dreams, desires of their own.
I could never know what you were thinking right then, I imagine you could not have told me either,
as you stared through me, hated me and tried to glass me.
Dementia is cruel.