Soon I will be going to
a family reunion
without part of my family,
which makes “reunion” more like
Lewis Carroll’s unbirthday party.
A man who looks like my husband
but is nothing like him
will be spending the week
and possibly the rest of his life
in a memory care facility.
The man who used to be my husband disappeared
years ago when dementia grabbed his brain
and refused to give it back.
He doesn’t remember that other man, but I do.
Words are difficult for my new husband;
he often speaks with his fists.
I would like to have my own family reunion
with my old husband:
just the two of us
sitting on a park bench
holding hands.
No fists.
