Forgotten, like a dusty novel on the shelf
containing many stories. She sits alone, day after
day, trying to remember events that have already
happened. The dots are all there, but they are
disconnected, like a lost constellation in the
night sky so far away.
The wrinkles on her face are due to a lifetime of
gravity. Her hands tremble, fragile with thin skin, as
she grips a lavender tissue. And her eyes, those
murky grey glazers, try to recognize familiar faces.
But like the pictures on the wall, her memory has
faded by many years.
“Who are you?” she asks. “Are you my son?
Are you my daughter?” And they always reply,
“Yes.” and sometimes, “No.” She has lost count
of how many birthdays she’s accumulated, and
has grown tired of the same ol’ cake and the
June days that come around.
She asks me questions I know the answer
to, such as, “Did you know is my husband is dead?”
And as always, I reply, “Yes. He was my grandpa.”
She blinks with realization of who I am and says,
“I’m so old. My mind just isn’t what it use to be.”
I smile, but a salty ocean is held back.
How terrifying it is, to compare 23 to 85. In the
blink of an eye, I will also teeter on the precipice.
My drumtight skin, my dirty blonde hair, all but a
grain of sand in the hourglass. There are a lot of
people I meet that are forgotten in this blur called life…
But she is not.


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I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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