When the first thing she said was,

They have stolen my brush and comb!

I knew our conversation was doomed.

Take some of my money and buy me

a brush and comb! Bring them to me!

Tell a nurse. She’ll find them, I advise,

still smiling passed suppressed dread. 

They won’t! She retorted without doubt.

Let me talk to a nurse; they will help you.  

No! Nurse! Nurse! Hang up this phone!

That was my first rejection by mom

in seventy-odd remembered years.

We have fought but never forsaken,

never slammed doors or walked away.

It stung; another prick in a sad day.

You can’t reason with schizophrenia.

Lord knows, I use to try and always

suffered defeat; not defeat, suffered

nasty instances of realization, knowing

that I, too, was one of her Satanic Liars!

Was I too fast to dismiss her claim?

Perhaps, I’m the one without knowing.

I’ve worn my twenty year old Corona

cap for three days, even in the house!

I need to wash, brush and comb my hair.