Mother, son

You take the stairs now on all fours while step-by-slow-step I march behind your swollen legs and spider veins to guard against a fatal fall. Intact, we reach our painful routine: nightgown, pillbox, toothbrush, toilet; cat box, litter, bag of poop. Beguiling us to care for you, dementia’s filched the woman we knew. What can I do, flatfooted here between love and rage, but place, gently, the pathetic teddy, a kiss to your brow.