• Email a friend
• Create a page like this
• Click here to bookmark this page

Poetry Through Love and Alzheimer's by Tom H. Bross

My father, Tom H. Bross was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s when I moved him from Boston to Spokane to live with me in 2012. My sister Molly and I sold him on an open-ended trip so he could bond with his grandkids. My step-sister Kit was barely able to get him on the plane. My father, Mr. World Traveler, didn’t bring his passport or driver’s license to the airport. It took genuine tears and a lot of begging to get a pass from the TSA agent.

I rented a house in the South Hill area of Spokane. He took up a liking to the chickens down the street and I took up jogging to keep him from getting lost. For the most part, he was happy, except that it was heatwave summer, and the house had no air conditioner.

I heard a lot of, “Chr-r-r-r-i-i-i-s-s-s-s-t it’s hot!”

Back in Boston, Kit was directing the movers on what to take and what to leave. When my father’s things arrived in Spokane, I felt sorry for them. There were endless boxes, mostly filled with books, heavy as hell and space was limited. Those would have to wait. I hooked up Dad’s computer and we started going through his AOL account. He had no idea he was getting scammed left and right. here were poorly disguised hackers asking for sensitive information and there was a letter from JAX FAX travel magazine. An article was overdue. It took some time, but I was able to find it in one of his drives. It was unfinished. I sent it back to the magazine with an apology and explained my father’s situation. This made me realize that my father went to Germany two months ago, attended a travel fair, researched an article, flew home, and started writing it, without all his facilities working properly. Amazing.

It was during the sorting process that I stumbled upon a black binder of my father’s poems. I read the first one, FEATHER, and nearly cried. So simply beautiful. It was dated 10/12/69. I turned the page to find more, MATCH FLAME, MORNING SAIL, and VISITATION DAY. Each was its own sliver of life, an observation, a sensation, or an emotion placed perfectly in words that were echoing in my head. I was instantly in awe. The dates hovered from the late 60s into the early 70s. Some of the poems were about us, his children. These were personal vignettes into my father’s past, little windows to see the world as he once did and perhaps still does. There were pages and pages of poems. Some of the paper was tan with age, some had watermarks, some were lined, and a few had corrections. But they were all his, each hand-typed in a font that already looked like the past.

When I showed Dad the binder I had found, he just shrugged his shoulders. I sat him down, opened a random page, and began reading. When I finished, I looked up to see him smiling.

“I remember writing that. It came to me while I was eating breakfast. I carried the typewriter into the kitchen and wrote while I read the newspaper.”

“Well, I think it’s great. You want to hear another?”
“Sure. Why not?”
And so, it began.

When my father needed full-time care, I moved him into the Veteran’s Home in Spokane. It was a good facility, it just felt so cold, like hospitals do. He had a good roommate, a large man from Montana confined to a wheelchair who looked out for him. The television was almost always on when I went to visit, though neither of them was ever watching it. While my father was living with me, he gained fifteen pounds, he was exercising and looked fit. Now he was more sedentary, sluggish, and soft. He had his crossword puzzles and books, but I questioned his comprehension after noticing that he had been on the same chapter for months.

At some point during a visit, I’d break out the binder of his poems. I had found more while sifting through his boxes. I also unearthed the school pictures we had sent to our father along with letters, artwork, blue ribbons, and report cards. Holding these relics from the past, made me feel the love he has for his children. I added the newfound poems into the black binder, which was now thick with pages peering through thin plastic protective sleeves. The moment I’d lift it into view his eyes would brighten.
“Would you like to hear one of your poems?”
“Sure. Why not?”
I located Sacramento Sunday and read it to him slowly. As I glanced up at my father, he looked lucid, aware, and hanging on each word. And when I finished, I paused.
“You wrote that,” I said.
“I wrote that on the flight home after visiting my wonderful children in California.” “Well, I love it.”
“It’s pretty good,” he said smiling.
“It’s very good! You want to hear another?”
“Sure. Why not?”

How to Purchase a Copy

Each poem in this collection is a fragment of a life lived, a moment captured in words, spanning from the late 1960s to the early 1970s. These are not just poems; they are intimate windows into the mind of a man whose memories began to fade with Alzheimer’s, but whose words would sometimes bring those memories rushing back. The pages—some weathered with age, others lined with corrections—hold the thoughts of a life still felt, if not always remembered.

Enjoy seventy poems of love, loss, laughter, and most importantly, living. Within these verses, Tom H. Bross speaks not only of the past but to a present that slips away, reminding us that moments may be forgotten, but the essence of a person remains.

For every copy sold, a donation will be made to the Alzheimer’s Association, keeping alive the fight for every moment.

Please Visit Amazon to purchase your copy of Forgotten Moments.