My grandma sits, a stranger in her chair
her mind has been erased, her body broken
(she still has the dark color of her hair)
remembers not a single word we've spoken.
She says she wants to leave, she wants to swim
(I swear she has her senses, they're just hidden)
my father wants to give in to her whim
but knows her greatest joy is now forbidden.
Will there come a year when my own mind
gives up, commences its own slow decline?
Perhaps before then researchers will find
a way to overcome my flawed design.
She's wheeled away, again forgetting me
I turn to leave, pondering what might be.