Home

Papa looks for home.
He can’t seem to find it
even though he’s in it.
We show him pictures,
hoping this will help.
It usually doesn’t.
We take him to the old place.
There are vines, rotten boards.
Rusty saw blades.
A bench with no legs.
Distance in his eyes.
No rest. No rest at all.
Always wandering. Searching.
Never finding.
Nothing is sadder than this.
But Papa, dear Daddy,
Look at me (Lord, still my soul.).
Be with me. Take my hand.
(I’m trusting to the Unseen Hand.)
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul.
Let’s listen to the crickets.
You are my sunshine.
I never knew you danced so well.
In this quilt (Mama made it)
let me hold you.
Home is here. With me.
Home is in my eyes.
Home is.
Home.

(art by Lester E. Potts, Jr., an artist who had Alzheimer’s)

6 thoughts on “Home

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