Favorite colors and bedtime stories. The sound of her voice and a hug goodbye. Every scraped knee that taught us to walk, each awkward first kiss, and devastating first loss molded us into who we are. We draw on the simplest form of these memories each and every day. We conjure the lyrics of a song or the name of a friend without batting an eye. Yet it’s a skill we have the luxury of taking for granted. Today, we honor the 5.4 million Americans living with Alzheimer’s. According to the Fischer Center for Alzheimer’s Research Foundation, “every 68 seconds, someone develops Alzheimer’s disease. At current rates, experts believe the number of Americans living with Alzheimer’s will quadruple to as many as 16 million by the year 2050.” This is a staggering figure. This is millions of mothers who will never remember the first time she held her child. This is millions of husbands that cannot recall a wife of 20 year’s name. And it cannot be prevented. It cannot be slowed. It cannot be cured. You may wonder what purpose this has on a writing blog. Intentionally or inadvertently, memory serves as one of the most powerful components of any form of art. We pull from past experiences to create a reality in fiction that is perhaps too painful to avoid or too wonderful to forget. In this way, the elements of life trapped within our minds become a sacred resource for our creative identities. Help make Alzheimer’s just a bad memory. Stay informed. Donate for the cure. Or simply be there for a loved one on a day when all his words are scrambled. Learn more here. Rambling- a poem to my great grandfatherMy fingers have forgotten
How to hold this pen still, To pluck at ivory keys, to Touch you without trembling. Once, my love, ink never bled, Notes never choked on jolts, for Once, these hands never shook, Nor were stars so blurry. Now years have limped along to find Words sprawled across this page, Empty, no, rambling Oh, rambling, as I am told Old men ought to learn They’ve nothing left to teach. Yet you, my dear, never scorn, Though your eyes often wander, Slip away to a universe Folded in the evening news, Drowning in your coffee. But by and by, holding hands, Shudders hardly matter. As in those eyes, I see the stars Clear as once they were, and My god, how you shine. Though damn this aging wit of mine, My mind has forgotten, My darling, what’s your name?
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AuthorWith ink dripping in my veins & stories dancing in my head, I spend my time untangling poetry & getting perfectly lost Archives
April 2017
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