Milton Taylor

Down Memory Lane
© 2003 Milton Taylor

He stands in the doorway, and try though he might,
He cannot recall should he turn left or right.
Puzzled, he pauses, alone in the hall,
And he wonders why ever he waits there at all.
'Til a nurse comes to free him from further despair;
Gently, she leads him to sit in his chair.
It's happened before and will do so again;
He's taking wrong turnings down memory lane.

He's restlessly combing the files of his mind
For details he seeks that his brain cannot find;
Angrily cursing with muttered vexation
And finding no answers to solve his frustration;
Speaking a language that few comprehend
While suffering from damage no doctor can mend.
And I watch him, and I think it's a horrible shame
That he's taking wrong turnings down memory lane.

I sit myself down in a chair by his side
And I hope he can't see how I'm hurting inside;.
Whilst hoping that this time, somehow, he might see
His visitor clearly - and recognize me.
He frowns as he searches for time and for place
To give him clue as he looks at my face.
Then, he smiles, as he tries to remember my name.
He's fumbling and stumbling down memory lane.

I think of the old times, the good times we had,
When I wasn't a stranger and he was my dad.
I blink back my tears as my heart churns with pain,
Watching him struggling; then lapsing again.
It's an on-going battle he fights every day;
Searching for signposts to show him his way.
But those signposts are smudged out and covered with stain,
And all pointing the wrong way down memory lane.

He whistles his sheep dog, then orders him back
As he gropes for the stockwhip he wishes to crack.
Then, not finding it, whispers, "They're all thieves in here;
They ransack me room and they pinch all me gear.
But I'll borrow some horses from Nugget or Roy;
I can't stay to talk now, I've got to go, boy."
There's a drover's mob waiting, somewhere, in his brain,
And he's mustering the stragglers from memory lane.

When my visit is over I kiss him goodbye;
Resenting that lost, haunted stare in his eye
As he looks for the road home he won't find today,
With dead ends and cul-de-sacs blocking his way.
So, I call up the memories I have as a kid;
Reviving the joys of the good things we did.
And I'm thankful that my path is clear cut and plain,
And I don't take wrong turnings down my memory lane.

Memory lane, down memory lane,
Looking for landmarks that won't come again.
He's old and confused; he isn't insane.
Just taking wrong turnings down memory lane.

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