Reflections From A Coffee Shop

Dementia Disease

 

Reflections From A Coffee Shop

Rainbow light refracts
from the glass to her
rosy cheeks.
She doesn’t see me watching,
I don’t even realise I am until she
giggles,
tucking fiery hair behind
dainty, little-girl ears.
I startle when the coffee machine
hisses,
angrily expelling its steam,
working to make folk like me happy,
but the girl sitting at the table next to us
is too lost in thoughts
to hear such incidentals.
She reads her text message,
with hazelnut eyes sparkling,
her fingers tap a hurried reply,
as though her thoughts will
dissolve
in mid air if she doesn’t profess her love right now.
I smile; I remember when I was her,
my whole life stretching ahead
like a piece of fancy elastic,
never stopping to think one day it would
snap,
and catapult me fifty years away from youth.
She places her tiny talking device
on the table and watches, waiting
for her love to respond,
she runs a freckled hand through her hair
and chews on her bottom lip—
the sandwich on her plate remains untouched—
I hear the beeps at the
same moment she does,
and my heart flip-flops.
I want her lover to be worthy.
Her eyes widen and foot taps.
When she reads, her squeal of delight
is only just audible over the
clitter-clatter of cups and cutlery,
but in that moment I can see
love
wash over her body.
She swings her Michael Kors bag
over a petite shoulder
and rushes away to he held by her lover.
I turn to the man I have loved for the last fifty years
and I wish I could read his mind
as easily as I could the young girl’s,
but when I look at him, I see a stranger;
someone who has never met me before.
His eyes are hollow,
he only sits with me because he can’t remember
how to leave,
so for the millionth time this year,
I try to imagine what it’s like to feel so lost and
vulnerable,
I place my hand over his
and know I will never again be able to read his thoughts.

The New Home

I wrote this piece of flash as a response to the challenge of writing a 100 word story.

Frail Hands

 

The New Home

Breaking glass shatters my thoughts.

“Who’s there?”

Silence. My heart thrums, reverberating inside my head. Why are they torturing me? Grabbing Steve’s baseball thingy, I creep toward the sound.

The cooking room, that’s where they are. I push the door open and catch her red-handed. “Stay where you are, I’m calling the police!”

“Mum, it’s me, Claire. Put the bat away.”

“No, stop trying to trick me. You’re here to—“ The words get lost somewhere inside my mind. Why can’t I remember?

“Oh, Mum. Let’s get you to bed. You’re just over-excited about your new home.”