Memory

There are days

I confuse Parkinson’s

with Alzheimer’s.

Maybe I’ve been

coming down with

both. Tremulous

à la San

Andreas. Amnesic

like a dissipated answer—

the snuffing of its candle;

wisps that up & frizzle

to the ceiling, evanesce

to merge with wafting clouds.

There are days I

mix up lupus

with arthritis. 

Either way I

cannot climb the steps.

You spoke to me of

wolves & full-moon

fever. It’s lupine I recall—

you giggled lunacy.

I thought it just in jest.

The days will come

when I’ll muddle love 

with cancer.

Will heave you in my

arms which throb from

fibro—the jack-of-all-conditions—

neuropathy’s poorer

cousin, place you in the

loo so you can purge

yourself of chemo’s

supposed cure. I'll cup my

ears at the bruit of violent

retching, limber up

to bring you back to

bed, place you under quilts

I’ll feign bring comfort.

What’s it called

when heat & cold are felt

in the very same instant?

When you sense you are

aflame in ambered ice?

When you race at the speed of

sight while lying still,

knowing diapers will be

the bookends to your

most-beloved’s life? Aging in

reverse would make no

difference, helpless to utter

a word on both your

last day & your first, the person who

wipes your drool you’re

unable to name.

Andreas Gripp

June 5, 2026

Miodrag Ignjatovic / Getty Images