You used to complain how memory liked
to play games, calling me by the names
of all your grandchildren. I, too, forget––
walking past the open door, still anticipating
your curved figure on the bed. A question mark
in a faded house dress, a scattering of white hair.
Forgetting
that the ambulance never came to stop
in our driveway, blinking red and blue, blue
and red, its siren as quiet as that treacherous
vein that if I closed my eyes, I could pretend
it were another Tuesday morning––the driveway
empty, your room the scent of Bengay still, a gnarled
hand held over your clouded eyes, the other hand
beckoning me to come, come closer and ask
how my poor old grandmother is doing.
But you are no longer there.
You are no longer.
What’s left now of your blue folding chair,
the much-used television, the rattling walker
folded up behind it: a muteness, an emptiness I
am not used to. Like walking past this open door, still
anticipating your curved figure on the bed. A question
mark. Can you hear me
are you there
how are you, how are you, how are you