I ask my grandmother quietly,
If she remembers my name.
"No, but you have a beautiful face."
Through glazed, sleepy eyes, she forgets my name
I'm lucky this time I'm a delicate stranger.
But now this is what we do.
With only 12-by-12 to see the world through.
The clear band around her flimsy wrist
Is just another reminder to what she can't recall.
Of the blissful instances that she can't recollect.
That she could almost never evoke.
I attempt to bring the scents of nostalgia to her nostrils
In hope that they will spark a certain memory
That would make her eventual eyes spark with ecstasy.
I endeavor for her to remember
When we laughed,
When we cried.
When we just sat silently
With only pure silence for company.
This room does the trick.
And quiet all the time.
Quiet like her laugh.
But muted like her memory.