I knew a man who’d lost his mind
but not himself apparently.
He happily sat, bemused but kind,
holding his grandchild on his knee.
You are so beautiful, he said
to her, repeating her sweet name,
while patting softly on her head
as if to play a lovers’ game.
She didn’t move but sat content
and gazed into her grandpa’s face.
She seemed to gather his intent
as he said: Grace. Beautiful. Grace.
I think of him quite often now
as names escape me: birds flown free
from broken bars behind my brow,
no longer mine, no longer me.
I think it’s time to be proactive,
to plan ahead for memory loss.
Address it now, because the fact is,
this aging business has a cost.
So now, in lieu of pondering,
I’ll call to mind the Holy Child.
He’ll look at me in wonder and
return in kind my doting smile.
I’ll say his name again, again,
against a time when it will be
all that I know, time coming when
my mind is void of all but Thee.
I pray that vacant, empty I will
recall the sweet child’s name. It pleases
me to think that I might still
repeat even then: Jesus. Beautiful. Jesus.