your daughter is in the cup – A Prose Poem by Bobbi Lurie w/ an image by Robynne Limoges

your daughter is in the cup

Thank God Mom’s still alive. Who else could I turn to? I don’t care if she‘s senile and falling fast into the abyss of Alzheimer’s. I’ve seen those folks in her nursing home, rolled up in the fetal position, crying for their mother. I will be my mother’s mother.

I’ve been keeping a journal since I was able to write. Ma never had time to talk. She was always busy. Now she has all the time in the world. I write while sitting with Ma now.

“Who’s your daughter, Ma?” We were at Starbucks.  I wanted to keep track of her forgetting. She was dipping her fingers into the cold cappuccino I wasn’t able to get her to drink. She pointed to the cup, “Here!” she announced, proudly. “What? Your daughter is in the cup?” She looked at me blankly. I wrote in my journal, Ma thought I was in her Starbuck’s cup today.

She’s always quiet for a while. But then she wanders off. “Let’s go home, Ma,” I’ll say, putting my arms around her. It’s as simple as that.

mom and me in the forest

Bobbi Lurie is the author of four poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn, Grief Suite and the morphine poems. She can be found on Twitter here: @BobbiLurie 

Banner: “Untitled” a photo image (c) by Robynne Limoges. Tweets: @LimogesRobynne

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