I can’t remember what I did yesterday

Or the day before that

Or the day before that.

But that’s normal.

Besides, I remember him.

My husband left me long ago

Left me in this hellhole of a nursing home.

“He comes every day,” my nurse tells me.

She is lying.

If he came, I would have remembered.

 

“Alzheimer's,” my nurse calls it.

It sounds familiar,

But I can’t quite recall

Where I happened to hear it prior.

She tells me it’s a disease

That makes me forget

And eats away my brain.

She is lying.

If I had a disease, I would have remembered.

 

A woman comes to visit me,

A woman I’ve never seen.

She says her name is Marget,

That she is my daughter,

And I named her that after my sister.

She is lying.

If I had a daughter, I would have remembered.

 

She asks me how I like it here

How the food is

How I like my roommate

Why does she torment me

With such pretenses?

Is she testing my memory?

I am an old lady -- I’m allowed

To forget some things.

She is lying.

If I had a roommate, I would have remembered.

 

She cries when I say I don’t know her

And it blends with the white walls

And she holds my leathery hand,

As if that will make me know her.

She tells me she loves me anyways.

She is lying.

If someone loved me, I would have remembered.