My grandmother has trouble
committing things to memory,
but she remembers my birthday.

I don’t know hers.
She tends to let
the little details slide,
but she remembers the peculiar spelling
of my peculiar name.
She makes plans twice, unknowingly,
(three times, intentionally)
but never would dare
double-books my show.
She scoffs at most
of the family still living
but my name on her upturned lips,
makes red lipstick seeps into wrinkles.

My grandmother isn’t angered
by my failure to call,
but rather she savors
each moment we salvage.

My grandmother
won’t
outlast the decade
but she’ll love me
past her last.