Saturday, February 24, 2007

Poem: The Winter of the Great Grandmother

It is the winter of my falls
the road is harder to walk on, easier to fall on
broken and fractured bones.
What has become of me?

After a fall I press the necklace alarm
to alert the young staff
who rush in to pick me up.
I can not raise myself.

My friends are long gone
my parents and sisters memories
I sit alone in a retirement community suite

I was raised to believe
my children would live near me
I would raise my grandchildren
but they all live so many miles away.

I can not remember yesterday
today is a blur
tomorrow means nothing.
The golden age of retirement
they never said it was Fool’s gold.

Every fall brings me closer to that hole in the earth
every day I lose more of my past
every day I have less to enjoy of the future.
Soon no one will remember me
even I will not remember me.
What has become of me?

Victor Schwartzman

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