Is my son here? No.

Is my son here? No.

Is my son here? No.

Where is he then? He is at work.

Every day, I take part in a cruel joke

Deceivingly telling my resident that her son is at work

When her son is deceased.

She is my honey, frail, always shaking, with snow white hair

I often find myself wondering what she was like before

Before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s

She used to be a caregiver, a hard-working woman trying to support her family

Her mind no longer processes

In a journal, she attempts to write - to remember,

but only "and, I, and, then, I wonder" are listed.

She always asks for her son until the sundowning takes place

By this witching hour, she is begging for forgiveness

Her son died in a car wreck - she was driving the car.

Is my son here? No.

He was my baby.

I know … he loves you.

Please bring him back …

Honey, he will be back when you are