I Don't Have the Answers

Dried carnations hanging from the ceiling;

the ticking of the clock grows louder still.

The microwave and stove

adorned with food stains.

The sink full of dishes.

The ceiling fan going round and round

communicating circles and orbits

over and over again.

I stare at my face in the mirror,

searching for wrinkles and gray hair.

Popping pimples and plucking light hairs,

the hairs that I'm not sure are white, gray,

or blonde.

***

My phone is dead. I'm not interested

in charging it. Static electricity

builds in my socks, on the blanket,

around the light switch.

I crawl into bed.

My head full of restless thoughts.

I wonder if this loop

this routine I do

is like the one my mom

had in her 30s. I wonder

if my mom's dementia

showed up as early as her 30s,

not in her behavior, but in the confines

of her brain patterns. No one would know

except for doctors with scanners. No one

could tell with the naked eye.

When did she start suffering from

early-onset dementia;

was it in her 30s? The disease

was pronounced by her 50s.

***

Will I endure the same fate?

The clock is ticking its loud

percussive song. The drums

beat louder at the close.

All of the sand has almost reached

the bottom of my mom's

time turner.