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.

Meaningless conversations,

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.

But no,

This room does the trick.

Serenely white

And quiet all the time.

Quiet like her laugh.

But muted like her memory.