by Gabrielle Alli
My grandma has Lewy body dementia. I wrote this poem based on our experiences together since her diagnosis.
It all started when she forgot how to cook,
a slight smile, swept up by a confused look.
And we just smiled back because we weren’t sure why.
Because if you don’t laugh, then you’re just going to cry.
One day on our own, sat in a room
I mention my name and she says, “Really? That’s you?”
I put on a grin and tell her it’s alright,
but that single moment weighs in the back of my mind.
Her limbs have grown heavy and she struggles up the stairs.
There’s shadows in the street that aren’t really there.
I’m called by ten different names, matched with six different faces.
She finds her way home in the most foreign of places.
A smiling girl plastered on the TV,
she’s talking to her instead of talking to me.
Grandma’s rambling about needles stuck in her dress.
Tissues torn on the floor and it’s all a huge mess.
“I love you, Grandma.”
She leans forward.
“I love you a lot.”
“Gabrielle?”
“Yes. I love you, a lot.”
“Love you too, baba.”