Dementia: A Moving Song

 

 

Lyrics:

An old faded photograph, is hanging on the wall,
All dressed up, Dad by her side, standing proud and tall,
Now she shuffle’s when she walks, she can’t stand up straight,
Her dinner falling from her spoon, can’t help how her hands shake. 

Oh her memory’s grown foggy and she’s not sure who I am,
But I come by every Tuesday, just to hold her hand.

She loves to tell me stories, often the same one,
The night Dad snuck out from the house, for love about to come,
And finding her there sitting, on the front porch swing,
Handed her a metal washer, as a promise wedding ring. 

Oh her memory’s grown foggy and she’s not sure who I am,
But I come by every Tuesday, just to hold her hand.

I know the news will come, she’s with dad once again,
But I’ll make my weekly visits, sit down reach for her hand,
For there’s nothing I’d prefer to do, on a Tuesday night,
Then hold her hand and listen, to the stories she recites.

There’ll be other faded photographs, young mother’s babes in arms,
Fathers standing by their side, all are safe and warm.
They, too, will have their stories, but if they can’t make the words,
I will read them in their pretty eyes, and they’ll know that I’ve heard. 

Oh her memory’s grown foggy and she’s not sure who I am,
But I come by every Tuesday, just to hold her hand.

For there’s nothing I wish I could do, on this rainy night,
Than to hold her hand and listen, to the stories…
of her life.

SOURCE:

  • Written by Alice Hesselrode and performed by Gregg Steiner

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