My grandmother was an amazing woman who died many years ago. She was my first experience as an adult (and new mother) of dementia and visiting someone in a nursing home. She did not have a clue who I was. On a good day she would call me my father’s name (I favour his side of the family) but she alway, always wanted to hold her great grand son. I am not sure who she thought he was, because my father only had daughters. This is a poem I wrote after the nursing home staff cut her amazing long hair and changed my grandmother into someone else. (She had never had short hair)
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Musings on travel, food, and everything else...
MAKING A DIFFERENCE, ONE STEP AT A TIME
Art and Lifestyle by Brandon Knoll
“Creating tomorrow’s writers …today!”
Stories about the challenges and adventures of a traveling, mid-life, unexpected widow