The Mist Between Us

 

Thoughts of a life lived
have grown dark and cloudy.
The river knows my sins,
yet it does not wash me clean
enough to begin again.

Its waters move slowly now, 
wandering through muddy channels,
releasing fragments of the past
gathered over so many years.

Visions of my thoughts dissolve
into ancient stillness
fading to dust
and blowing across the waters
of the wastelands of forgetfulness—
held tight, never relinquished.

I sit in quiet, listening
to laughter and cries of joy.
My eyes see,
but do not recognize the figures.

A tray is placed before me
by someone who smiles,
yet sorrow lingers behind their eyes.
Why are they sad?
Do I offend them?
Did I wound them somehow?

My mind struggles like a drowning man,
gasping with his final breath,
trying to recall
who and what stands before me.

Darkness falls within the woven spaces
of my mind,
cloaking the visions of a past
I cannot remember.
I do not feel the pain
I see reflected in their eyes—
why does it not reach me?

Measured glances fall upon me,
hoping to see my eyes
come alive again.

My shoes show the journey taken,
but I do not recall the steps.
They are worn, cracked, scuffed—
yet my memory cannot relive
the paths we walked.

We traveled many roads,
in silence and in shouts of happiness.
Now they are silent,
and I no longer hear the footsteps
striking the ground of life.

This uneasy silence has its way with me,
ever vigilant, relentless in its darkness.
I cannot see through the mist.

Children play and laugh
somewhere within that mist.
They call to me—“Come play, Papa”—
and take my hand, pulling me
from the quiet isolation
of empty thoughts.

I must know them.
I must have given them joy and love,
for they surround me
and sing a tune I cannot recall,
though they know every word.

A cake with candles glows before me.
Each child stops to hug me,
to kiss my cheek.
My eyes fill with tears of sadness—
I do not know them.

Are they my family?
Am I a stranger taken in,
offered this gift of warmth
and belonging?
Or am I truly, utterly lost?

My mind searches for a place to land,
a place to root itself in memory,
but it wanders still through darkness
and cloudy visions of faces
unrecognizable to my eyes
and my heart.

I bow my head in shame
and pray these people return me
to the quiet destiny
ordained for my final days.

Misery stretches long, unending,
with little light left
to shine on others.
The door has closed,
and no other opens
except the one I see
in distant, shattered thoughts.

I will stand on that threshold soon.
Will they still be sad?
Will they cry—
these people I see
but do not know?

I crave peace.
I fear leaving them,
even as I beg each day
to see my past again.

Their kindness lives
in their smiling eyes,
their warmth in the soft lines
of their faces.

I cry inside for forgiveness
and pray they will remember me
when I no longer can.

And somewhere beyond this fading,
the river moves at its slow, patient pace.
It carries what I can no longer hold,
drifting through muddy channels
toward a place where memory rests—
not lost,
only laid down.

 

Hello all, I was inspired to write this because I was a caregiver to a person with dementia for several years and slowly watch the light fade from her eyes and spirit. The sadness expressed while she still had fragmented vision of her condition just amplified the pain she was feeling. It was heartbreaking to watch and not being able to give a gentle assurance of hope. I'm sure we all know someone or have heard of someone with this debilitating disease. I hope this piece resonates.