My fingerprint is plastered—
indelibly
on the third floor button
of my Grandmother’s condo.
Each memory swaddled
in her scent begins there:
Click. SNAP! Hum…
Imagine musty—old
people mustily smell
smell—the elevator’s carpeted
floor is soaked in it.
Cleaner somehow, than
a senior’s home;
the scent of
independence, good health,
and well-traveled, with a whiff of
retirement thrown in.
These are not, however,
my earliest grandmother memories:
I picture a ranch-style
home with green—
pineneedle green,
Christmas pineneedle green
window shutters and garage
doors. Up the front walk
there is a tree, dropping
prickling pinecones—
seed spores; crunchy underfoot.
Pictures, old,
of Mom. Her room
is gone.
Tear down the 1970s
wallpaper, kitchen wallpaper,
and find history underneath;
written in indelible marker.
Mom is gone. Grandma is gone.
People are not indelible.
Green shutters indelibly replaced by a button.