Resting atop a bright blue couch,
she stares at the glow
of another Red Sox game.
Her face an unresolved puzzle.

I quietly walk in,
careful not to disrupt or disturb.
I gather up my voice and say,
“Hi, Grandma, it’s me.”

Her head turns
and she observes.
“Hi, Alyssa. How are you?”
Let the endless questions begin.

Months start to pass,
memories start to fade,
leaving the shallow shell
of a beautiful woman.

Once again I glide in,
silent as a gentle breeze,
gathering up my voice to say
“Hi, Grandma, it’s me.”

Her head turns,
and she observes.
“I’m sorry, but who are you?”
Let the endless hurt begin.

Time slides by,
life grows weaker.
The hands of the clock
go round and round.

This time I am outside.
I glide along the soft grass
and set down the roses
at the base of the sunken rock.

“Hi, Grandma, it’s me.”