Locked Away

We lost you twice.

The first time was gradual.

The last time, sudden.

Expected, but quick.

We visited you.

You nodded in all the right places.

You communicated but we did not understand.

We saw you, but did you see us?

We didn’t think you did.

Were you in there?

We didn’t know if you were
but our assumption was negative.

Do you even know who “you” was?

Where is that closet of recollections,

the one where the door is wedged shut?

I looked, but did not have the proper tool.

We wanted to let you out, to tell you who you were,

but we were frustrated with the struggle.

Do you remember that day?

It was sunny, and you told a funny story.

Do you remember me?

I’m the one to whom you gave your bread recipe, and the bowl

etched from a thousand creations.

What was this disease that had you locked away

from your memories,

from yourself,

from us?

It was cruel and I do not forgive it.

The end of your disease, like mine (like life), is death.

It visits at the strangest times and knows no boundaries.

But do you remember that day?

You don’t, but I do, so I will remember for us both.