Poetry day 28
Stagger
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.
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