My Aunt Edna Young was one of the dearest people I have ever known and loved. The cruel hand of Alzheimers touched her deeply before she died. I wrote this poem for her:
She could sense my love,
but her mind no longer
allowed her to remember me.
I'd ask her if I could
give her a hug because
I didn't want to frighten her.
I'd gently kiss the top
of her head, hoping that
my love would penetrate
the fog clouding her mind,
and trapping memories
that could be so comforting,
if they could only escape.
She'd speak, and tears
would fall because she
wanted so desperately to be
like she once was.
Life's cruel hands of fate
had no sympathy as it
robbed her at a time
when it was her
turn to receive from those
to whom she had
given so much.
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