When I was young,
my mother used to feed me—
unsteady hands,
the spoon often falling down.
When I grew up, my hands steadied,
and I started eating on my own.
But my mother taught me etiquette,
table manners at every meal.
She sat opposite me,
showing how to eat properly.
She made me practice handling
cutlery until it felt natural.
Now she’s grown old with dementia.
She’s forgetting how to eat.
She struggles with spoon and fork,
has trouble cutting meat with the knife.
Now I feed her, as she fed me
when I was young. The irony stings:
while I improved through her training,
she forgets everything as days slip by.
I can’t teach her or make her remember.
But I can feed her—like she fed me
when I was young.
