Dementia


My thread and needle are never far.

I want to pick apart your brain and extract the filaments of your thoughts; to twist, coil, and plait. I want to weave your abstractions into a quilt so that I can wrap your textile mind around me.

I want to suffocate in the soft heat of your fabric soul.

I want to make it myself, that ethereal blanket. Just like my grandmother used to do back when people still took pride in creating things with their hands, in sacrificing their time and suffering for the prospect of producing something tangible. I want to see the proof of my labor across your starry, expired ideas, I want to look at each stitch and know that my bruised fingers did that. My efforts are holding you together.

Because that is what I will always do for you.

My thread and needle are never far.

No matter how much your mind deteriorates, I will find a way to patch it up again. Illness will never have you, not completely, no. When you forget who I am, I will play music that takes you back to a time and a place where you used to dance with me. When you are unable to stand, I will hold your feather-light body in my arms and sway you gently to the beat, so you can feel the song, too.

I will never let you unravel.

I will remake you every day and swathe myself in your beautiful, fragmented mind. And where the gaps are, I’ll fill it in with my own, patching up the holes with what’s left of me until I have nothing left to give. I will swaddle us together in a sheet of shattered memories and broken, human hearts.

And we’ll sway to the music.

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