August 8, 2011
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these wrinkled hands
are soft, so soft
weathered, but not

memories embedded
into skin

she traces the creases
of her upturned palm
traces the faces of people

she remembers

how for seven decades
his fingers laced
perfectly through

Aristophanes’s two
parts of one whole
gone so soon, too soon

she remembers

picking up the pieces
quiet and lonely
as the world bustled
behind a hyaline wall

clutching old photos
and billets-doux
of evanescent moments
gone so soon, too soon

she remembers

pressing her hand
to the mirror—
this isn’t how
she pictured herself
but she’ll make do

drink up the sunshine
inhale the laughter
of giggling girls
galloping through grass

let the light linger on
stale sugar-spun hair

she remembers
her baby girl’s
sweaty smile
life bundled into
a blue blanket

the years suddenly
falling heavy
on weary shoulders
happy, oh-so-happy

she remembers

and she laughs

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