Losing the Thread

a poem inspired by my grandfather, who walked gracefully and with dignity

Losing the Thread

I sit in a chair
at a table between the kitchen and living room
in this place where we've been staying.
It's a strange place, and small.

But that's our couch
and those are our lamps and that's my wife.
Although I don't know why she's wearing her hair like that.
It makes her look old.

People are always coming and going.
Most of them look old too, and many of them seem to be actors.
Or maybe they're just crazy.
I'm not sure yet.

They pretend to know me.
How are you today, John?
Did you have your breakfast, Grandpa?
Nope. I don't think so anyway.
Yes he did, my wife says.

I go along.
I smile and try to say the right thing
and to guess who everyone is supposed to be.
But it's very confusing, so mostly I just watch.
        I wish we'd go home now.