Alzheimer’s Sestina

August rain falls on the old home,

hot, steaming, the last breath of summer.

My grandmother lost her phone, again,

I find it next to the milk, in the fridge.

I watch the clock like a ticking bomb,

count the moments to a birthday.

This year she forgot my birthday;

I don’t blame her, I’m far from home.

Forest aflame from the autumn bomb,

the breeze crisps the late heat of summer.

This year, no cake is waiting in the fridge.

This year, another year, quiet, again.

The cycle is coming to a close, again,

my grandmother celebrates her birthday

in a haze. Molded leftovers in her fridge,

she’s becoming a ghost in her own home.

I count the days left in summer.

Breathe in, deep, the rain’s balm.

The buildup to a bomb

can be worse than the damage. Again,

I know nothing outside of summer,

outside the magic of wishing on a birthday,

still, a chill has taken the home

and it’s not from the forgotten, open fridge.

Her thoughts fray at the fringe,

dispersing like a fading sunbeam.

All the lights are off in the house.

Memory loss explodes again and again and again.

This is her last memory of a birthday,

every year after is stuck in 2018’s summer.

I want to get stuck in 2018’s summer.

When grandma baked sweets for the fridge,

called at ten o’clock every year on my birthday.

Life itself is a ticking bomb.

Alzheimer’s takes them once, death, again,

until this house is no longer a home.