Weekly Visit

July 4 2012

The measure of happiness

is difficult.

That I can recite this passage

before, and after,

and she will light up, entranced

smile her thanks

as if the very first time.

Her favourite lines

read back.

Flattered

I remember.

Yet I feel unworthy,

this reliable stanza

she has heard, and heard

and heard,

and thrills her still.

As if my credit

was undeserved,

her pleasure inauthentic.

That I had taken advantage

of her ingenuousness.

A man of sound mind

might envy this,

her singular focus

simple joy.

To be so completely filled

by these few familiar words,

while his head’s full of chatter

the constant distraction

of random thoughts.

But that’s not what I feel;

only fear

that I, too, may forget.

They say that as memory is stripped away

the true personality comes through,

one’s essence

preserved.

So I am touched

by her gratitude
love for language,

this beautiful woman

who no longer knows my name.

Who knew

happiness worked this way?

So pure, and unconstrained.

That a damaged brain

may soon forget

but feels as intensely.

That joy

may quickly vanish

but is no less worthy.

Because if the measure

of true happiness

is that it lasts,

then nothing counts.

Just more sadness

in the world.