Written By Xochi Luna, a resident's 15-year-old granddaughter
It's been a passion of mine
To try and figure out
What's inside the mind.
I've considered becoming a neurologist-
But it isn't brain cells i want to study,
Thoughts, I believe,
Take form in the brain as lightning strikes.
Comes and goes in a matter of seconds.
Sometimes, we wish for the thunderstorm to stop.
We pray, silently,
For the lightning to be quiet.
This happens to me
As I am lying in bed,
Trying to fall asleep.
The lightning strikes burn the edges of my mind,
Begging me to watch them,
Stare at them in wonder
Like I have done so many times before
They keep me awake,
And so I must ask them to be quiet.
I ask the brewing clouds
To clear away.
I ask the storm to stop.
And while it may subside,
It never really goes away.
When I think, hard,
I think that maybe it would be lonely If my personal storm left.
This, for me, is evidenced in broken minds.
Those that stay blank,
Those that have wished so hard
For the storm to leave
That the storm has lost its patience
And packed up.
This is how I would define "dementia".
And yet, the neurologists
Would never believe me.
This is why I can never be a brain doctor.
Instead, I have dedicated myself
To the preservation and protection
Of these fragile lightning strikes.
I stand with a lightning rod in hand,
Its end encased in a little glass jar.