She only knows the memories now:
That there was the sharp
bitter taste of the spoons each week
but not the taste of it on her tongue, or
how it mingled with the sweet
of chocolate pudding.
She used to remember.

She once knew the color
of the old baby doll’s dress,
peach pink or baby blue, as it sat
primed for children with the pink
felt monster and that fuzzy outline
of a toy on the tall guest bed.

She doesn’t even know
which aunt it belonged to or
which child scrawled her name in marker
on the underside of the coffee table.

She should have.
She should have known
before they hammered the “For Sale” sign
in front of the petunia garden they’d planted.