Research

I find the thinnest of books,

sit with it in a corner,

hunched over the pages,

ignoring the rhyme-time-baby-cry-zone

happening at the library’s opposite end.

Before I’m even halfway through the book

I’m pretty sure it’s dementia Marla’s got.

So I need to be calm.

I need to smile, explain things,

say her name when we speak

and

stop,

focus on her with my full attention.

If I want to find a way to stay put

for a while,

I’ll need to understand the illness –

understand her.

And although some part of my brain

tells me I could be there to help Marla,

I know I am only helping myself,

there for Allison’s sake

alone.

A Range Rover in the car park

makes sloppy attempts

to fit into a too-small space.

I leave the book on the window sill

and leave the library.