Pasta, herbs, spices, rice, three kinds of flour, nuts, sultanas, oats, seeds. And the rest.

Recently I've been talking to so many people, trying to change how dementia is seen, treated, experienced.

It feels urgent. This is for all of us.

And in a way, the intention is to heal this dementia world. So when I need more, it might come with understanding, kindness, recognition.

There’s a bag full of jamjars in the cupboard.

I soaked, washed, scraped off the labels and

now a cloud of glue sticks to fingers, dust, sleeves.

Whatever’s inside can’t be seen.

Full-bodied, simple, fluted, squat.

They seem to curtsey, pause for admiration.

The jars are shining now, unglued with a paste

of baking soda from its tub and coconut oil

from a plastic box – each has its own container.

The jars fill up. It takes a while.

They sit together on the counter in friendly groups,

the teas, the seeds, the flours.

I’m not domesticated.

The kitchen’s cluttered, the cupboards crammed,

the floor could always do with mopping.

Don’t wait for the problem to begin,

solve it while that’s still possible.

Cool and smooth, these jars will be

companions on the way, open,

clear, no filters and no clouds.

I'm easier now. I may need these jars, later.