After Dementia

I hope you sit next to Jesus,
both of you on the mossy river bank,
and dip your perfect, straight bare toes
in the warm, bright water.
I hope you tell Him those memories
you told us over and over as
too many things went dim.
I hope, sitting next to Him, you see
why they mattered so very much.
I hope His presence somehow
fills the ache of the city-girl stranger
on her father-in-law's farm.
I hope He celebrates your secret triumphs
and soothes your secret griefs.
I hope you watch His grace
fill all the fissures of  your mistakes and wrongs.
I hope you have forgotten all the forgetting.
I hope your hands are expert as ever--
shaping shirts and biscuits and the very best apple pie--
only without having to be perfect.
I hope you ask a thousand questions of how things work.
I hope heaven has clouds piled high
over green fields, alive with glory's colors,
and I hope you've always someone
to admire them with.
Singing--there's singing and I hope,
somehow, that your soprano is the same--
and your smile's saucy lift to one side.
I hope you laugh and laugh
and nothing is ever terrible again.