Sister

I wonder, Sister, all the time,
do I tell the truth:
Or is what I remember made up?

The bears that lived in the cellar.
Did you really say they would get me?
Or did I make that up?

Such memories continue to haunt me.
They have surely left—like
rheumatic fever—as I grew.

What were the names of my teachers?
Did I have friends?
I remember the names of my dogs.

It's true; I am losing connections.
Who it was came first
or the order in which things happened.

What is left of my life is eroding.
I can't recall
what it is I am wanting to ask.

From, then, you are all I have left.
You are a comfort.