Alzheimer's for Dinner

     Anyone who has spent much time cruising Christian relationship guides knows about the five love languages:  words of affirmation, physical touch, acts of service, quality time, gifts.  They missed mine, food is my love language.  Giving it, not eating it. Technically, making food would be an act of service, but if the authors had bothered to contact me, food would have had its own category.  I love feeding people and when they eat my cooking, I feel like they are accepting my love. I think I got this from my grandma, both her and grandpa took feeding people very seriously.  For them it was a part time, if not full time, job.  The following poem expresses grandma's gradual descent into Alzheimer's from the perspective of the dinner table.

                Alzheimer's For Dinner

No matter what time we arrived at my grandparent's house
for our annual visit, dinner was ready.
Eleven in the morning or nine at night
the table was set
and a roast was warming in the oven.
Grandma always cooked enough food
to stuff a threshing crew.

The first time we noticed grandma had changed
was when she put pepper in the chocolate pudding
thinking it was gravy.
Grandpa quietly set it aside.
There was still lots of food, but
we ate the roast without gravy that year.

The next time we visited
dinner was ready,
but it was hot dogs this time.
And I noticed, for the first time
hand prints on the wall.
Grandma had always kept her house so clean
you could eat off the floor.

The year after that, grandpa
took us out to eat.
At the restaurants, the waitresses already knew
what my grandparents would order.
Grandma kept repeating the same questions.

The following year, we took them out for dinner.
When we arrived at Pizza Hut, a waitress
raced out from the kitchen.
"Where have you been?  We were so worried."
They hadn't eaten there since they moved
into assisted living, and grandpa couldn't drive anymore.
Grandma passed the time counting cars in the parking lot.

When I visited grandma in the nursing home
she was sitting in the dining room.
Even though she didn't know who I was,
she pointed to her plate and said,
"Would you like something to eat?"

     I will probably be the same way.  I would not be disappointed if one of the last things my mind holds onto is my love language.