Dead Woman, Waiting

Dawn

The dead woman lives in one room,

surrounded by all that she loved

when she was alive: 

wolves, elephants, ocean, forest,

photos of herself in those vibrant years,

photos of the children, long grown and gone,

who forget to call.

The Dead Woman sits

and, some days,
she  remembers it all.

She once spoke with forest sprites and firebirds,

danced the dawn up every morning,

put the sun to bed at night,

communed with whales

and talking trees,

and laughed under the moon.

Now she lives in a silent room

where the dust

settles around her,

a stale blanket

in the gloom.

Her hair and her heart are covered with cobwebs.

She is resigned to this waiting life,
as the fog of Alzheimers
slowly creeps into
the fingerlings of her mind,
like a coastal shoreline,
vanishing.

Some days she counts up

all the wrong turnings

that stole so many years.
The worst days
are when she remembers.
The best days
are when she forgets.

Ha, a dark tome for Grace's prompt at dVerse: Dead Man Poetry. 
Note: mercifully, not autobiographical.