There are these little things I remember,
when I visited my Grandma as a child:
she was telling me fairy tales,
no one could tell them like she;
always going the same old ways,
buying crullers at the bakery,
watching people in the pool from outside;
taking a bath in the evening,
poping one she could not hide.
Some weekends like this we were spending,
when I visited my Grandma as a child,
these little things I remember.
Now I haven't seen her for a while.
Now she is awaiting to die.
Is it due to her style?
I really don't know why
I fear visiting her today.
She doesn't even know who am I,
her memories faded away.
Is this the reason why I just wait,
that I want mine to stay?
But if I wait too long, it might be too late.
(This poem is for my Grandma, who is suffering from dementia)