digging 

i have watched 

as my grandmother

has begun 

to dig. 

she digs for what 

she knows

should be there

she digs for what 

she knows 

should be

beneath the surface

something 

she knows

she can’t find.

her digging began in twenty-nineteen

when a doctor confirmed it was

alzheimer’s. 

i sit with my grandmother

her memories scattered and still

in the family photos

we used to pore over 

to remember,

together.

the photos she looks at

but can no longer see.

today she looks and sees

stephanie 

but really

it’s mary

but tomorrow

it’s katie.

then no one. 

then maybe

she sees a glimpse

proclaiming 

it’s mary,

it’s me.

then,

it’s stephanie. 

i want you to feel 

the digging.

the resistance 

the frustration

the confusion

the anticipation

as you try harder

to find what 

you know

should be there

what you sense is 

waiting to be seen

just beneath the surface.

i want you to see

glimpses of a face

and watch as the face

you may have once known

gets pushed away

deeper

even as you 

dig.