Lost

I have little hands.  They are strong but could not withstand the force it would take for me to punch a hole in the wall.  It would hurt me badly to do that.  But what makes me want to, hurts me more.

My mother is on the very last nerve that is mine and I want to break something.

There.  I said it.

I am frustrated and angry, red in the face and ashamed.

I am sitting on my hands and biting my tongue.  

There are hot tears behind my eyes but if one of them should fall, the dam would break so I keep them at bay.

Damn you, dementia.

Why her?  Why did you rob a loving, decent, Godly woman of a perfectly good mind?

You are a good for nothing thief.  You belong in hell.

She didn't deserve this.  And neither did I.  Neither did my sister or my brother.  

There are flashes of her.  Short little bursts.  They never last long enough to get caught up in them and they just leave us missing her more.  It's like sometimes she tries to dig herself out of her eternal fog and she scratches the surface but is dragged back down in the undertow that is this disease.  

No escape.  

No reprieve.  

Again, DAMN YOU DEMENTIA.

...

You are home, Mama.  

Tonight and every night.  

You sleep in your room, in your bed, whether you know it or not.  

You do not have another home to go to even though you beg me to take you there.

You're already here.  

And I'm trying, I really am.  I'm trying to convince you and make you feel safe but no matter what i do, I cannot break through that place your mind is in.

... 

DAMN YOU.  

Give her back to me.  

A girl should never have to feel lost when she comes home to her Mama.

I want to be six again.  

I wish my hands were bigger.