She caches her jewelry
Cardboard tubes under her mattress
Hidden from faces she can’t remember
Haunting her with changed bedsheets
While disembodied voices perched on telephone wires
Check on her

She gripes
They’re stealing my things
At the liar:
Voice too old to be her daughter

Sunday – no – Wednesday
No
How can it be?
A nurse says it’s Thursday
But
Yesterday – Thursday
Is every day Thursday?

Late at night,
Her husband’s music
Swings with heart monitors
Her attempts to hum along
Come out as sobs; George?
Loss written on blank pages
In books she can’t find

She sits in the gardens
As her son walks to greet her
He’s playing tricks again
–streaks of silver and smile lines
He holds her hands and sits

“Mom, Jessie came to see you.”
Who is Jessie?

Her mouth stiff–
No mood for tricks
As her son nods toward a woman
Familiar, but foreign

“Grandma!”
The breeze squeals
Climbs up on the bench
And into her lap

She stares into eyes
Just like my own
With hair like her son’s
When he was a boy

But

When was this child
An infant; a toddler?

Why can’t I remember?

She looks at the woman;
her son; her granddaughter–

Why can’t I remember?
Why can’t I remember?