Katie Billham

I sit, in the same place I always do, my work a mindless map of words on the familiar table. So many days I’ve sat here. What have I achieved? Nonsense spills from your lips, half formed sentences hitting the block in your brain, halted and dissolved. Panic rests permanently in your eyes, recognition a mere memory in the lines of your face. 

You forgot me long ago. 

Some days to me you’re just another madwoman, and when I catch those thoughts in my head I shake as much as your veined hands, tracing the lines of text you read aloud. I’m helping, apparently, but I don’t see you getting any better. I don’t see you look at me the way you used to. 

Faded photographs behind bulletproof glass, your memories are unattainable riches. You can’t see our tears through the fog that clouds your thoughts, can’t see much at all. It clings and sticks, consuming all, and I am scared. But you forgot me long ago. 

You used to say things that made sense, like a single train of thought broke through, uncontained no more, free at last! You haven’t called me by my name for many years now. I can’t remember what it sounds like in your mouth, can’t recall the way you linger on its syllables. 

You forgot me long ago. 

You’re a husk, remnants of your former self still held in your fragile grasp, afraid to let go. I talk with you, a nonsense string of single words and half formed sentences, never making any sense. I’m helping, apparently, but I still don’t see you any better. I still don’t have you back. 

We lost you a while ago now, but our memories are like crystals in the palms of our hands, sparkling and colourful, and one day we’ll sit in a café at breakfast time, and remember the woman that you were.   

Words: Katie Billham, Storehouse Content Team, @katiie_mae_

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