Epistle to Alzheimer’s

escapes memory grows older. I find myself coming to the same places.
Losing my way at the wrong doors. Strangers who understand let me in.
They teach me words, train me in remembrance. I forget nonetheless.
is forgetting but to remember the same things over and over?

Birds when quiet are an evening.
They fly from one end to the other, speaking in syllables I don’t
understand. When I ask the strangers to teach me this language, they
enquire about my last memory.

All I have is an old, rusted
photograph for memory and I do not know what to say anymore. What
could I, possibly?

Trivarna Hariharan
11 03 16