It’s true you forgot
about the woman you were
about us, about everything
—but you remembered to smile.
We saw it in the sunken jowls,
the toothless cheeks,
the way your head sank and your back curved,
when you saw but could not see.
It was your tiny frame
curled into a chair, motionless
heavy-lidded and restful.
Remembering was tiring work.
It was almost funny when,
in clans of four at a time,
you would wake for visitors
to find eight tear-blinking eyes
begging you to see us.
We knew you’d forgot
and somehow you knew too.
It was the little smile,
the ‘It’s okay’ beam, shiny and pink,
the ‘I know why you’re here, not who you are.’
It was the way you let us, strangers,
kiss the top of your head
and I breathed in that smell
that made me think of Mum.
We knew you’d forgot
but you still let us say, ‘Love you, Grandma.’