Dementia runs in the family

 

I fear it

One day my mind will be not brilliant

But broken

A clay jar full of olive oil, smashed

Oozing into the clay dirt of home,

Hungry and struggling to grow hay instead of invasive multi flora.

I am the child of my mother 

I choose flashy earrings on a Tuesday 

And water the garden in my pink skirt

While pondering forbidden thoughts you wouldn’t want to hear any weekday, getting the practical task attended

While plotting the glorious and ridiculous.

Then I build a life out of recycled fingernails and worm castings and admire what I have done. 

It is a good life, a narrow lie, a little fib that things are fine here, my children run to me and embrace me; and I feel vindicated for all the things that rebuilt me painstakingly and at cost

Like an engine

Rebuilt. 

Maybe I will run for years 

Maybe I will throw a rod

Tomorrow.