My sister shares our mother's blonde hair
Pale like corn silk
In your sun-bleached hands
She cries when you call her by our mother's name
"She doesn't know me"
"She doesn't remember"
But that's not completely true, is it?
Her face still lights up
When we walk through the door
In her mind she's a young mother
She sees that we're family
Knows there is love
And slots us accordingly
Granddaughter becomes daughter.
Grandson becomes little brother.
She reminds me of the time we stole all the Christmas cookies, and I nod
Remembering that terrible crash
And my gingerbread uncle
Without a seatbelt
Forgetting is cruel, but so are memories
Why should our grandmother
Bear both burdens?
For as long as we can
Let us be her
Blonde hair and cookies
Until it's our turn
Until it's our turn to forget.