when she rises
her beauty unfolds
expressed from a frame
crooked, bent, not
straight like before,
more like
the crescent moon
emerging softly from the
heavy cover of night.
but her smile
but her eyes electric
her beauty rises in
a perfect arc
leans on the back
of her chair
shuffles three steps worth
finds a cigarette
or some cheese
to slice for me.
Sitting again
Using her feet to wheel
her chair into place
at the kitchen table,
in herhouse/myhome,
with a book full of friends
waiting for her to call
say, "How are you, honey?"
My memory is her voice
its warm tenor
its melody like wind
and the quiet reassurance
of her hand
resting on top of mine,
flowered placemat
and a bowl of
half-eaten cat food
in the corner
reminding me
we share one voice.
Reminding me
how to remember.
