Thirty Sausis of Twenty Eleven

It's too hard to blog about what happened.

Here's some English stuff:
1.28.11
"As she walks forward, cold falls in her trail,
like shards of ice her footprints break the snow.
If I a man who is blind and with brail,
then she is a fire, lighting pages slow.
Ripping into delicate fabric hearts,
her words are mountain beast claws in my soul.
Her smile is made of bitter pastry tarts;
Yet, everyday she takes her low toll.
Her eyes are made of a blazing fire
too intoxicating to escape from.
And most burning ashes tend to tire,
perpetually forward moving some.
How she must see the misfortune she brings
With her devilish horns and angel wings."

6.11.09
"In my woeful life you are the sunshine.
You're the radiant in more ways than one.
You are warm, kind, hopeful, and very fine.
You light up my day when we're having fun.
Our goodbyes and good mornings are so sweet;
Your love will light up my dark, hollow sky.
When you rise, the birds start to sing and tweet,
and day is dark 'til we say our first, "hi."
At night, when you're behind the moon so pale,
I know that you expose your love to her.
Although, at loving me you seem to fail.
When I confront you, your response is "sure."
You're the light in my life and hers as well,
Your love story with her you don't retell."

But what gets me most is not that he is gone. It's that he faded. Even though I was too young to remember him without his disease, I can remember the crippling story of Alzheimer's. [Is it odd that our lives are connected by memories that don't fit?] I remember last summer, he was in the nursing home. And, his memory was literally gone-too much to even remember his wife of sixty years (but it had been months since he remembered her). But, he was almost child-like. Him, a man so strong, to have seen so much, but he smiled that sweet, innocent smile. Like, 'Hey, there are people here to see me. Cool.' And it's that. Like he never got a chance. No one deserves to leave without remembering anything.

Isn't the last moments of life when you think something about your entire life. And this disease destroys any concept of reflecting.

Stone against diamond,
soul against life.
Scratched and beaten with tears-breaking down,
there is no way to hold firm,
hot tears of broken wings and a fallen solider.
There's no heartbreak to describe
the descend of an elderly child.'