Before the Trilafon
wiped away the last shred of her personality
making her placid
easy to manage
without passion
void
her mind wiped clean
like the blackboard
in her fourth fgrade classroom
at the end of the day
my mother’s demntia
led her through wild mood swings
now in fear
appearing as a horseman of the apocolypse
again as love
infinite and unconditional. 
One night
as she wrestled with the demons
of memory long repressed, 
she cried out in anguish
as if a sin were being confessed
stained like the blood on the depth of her soul:
“I have Indian blood in me!
 I have Indian blood in me!” 
Some time passed, but before
the Trilofon washed over her mind, 
carried her away to that dark sea
without memory
She smiled sweetly to me
“You’re Steve.”
And your name?
“I’m Edith”
And then in some far corner of her mind
she found this fragile flower:
“Well, we know who we are, 
but it seems like we don’t know much else.”
Maybe that’s enough, mom. 
Maybe that’s enough. 

Nov 14, 1997