My mother never talked about her mother
because she passed on when I was five
and that’s when I learned,
that people do not live forever
I was not permanent
I was not an indelible mark
I was merely grazing the earth
making small smuts in the soil
and moseying over leaves
as we yellowed
together
I dumped my dolls into a dark bin
and hid them away
because none of them blinked
none of them changed
none of them died
and I could not relate
to stagnant bits of plastic
anymore
My mother never talked about her mother’s hands
but I remembered them
Her palms had more ridges than mine
They were always cold
glacial troughs
telling stories
like maps of the past
I remember her incurable malady
like an empty cart trundling down
a pitted road
towards a parched body of water
that my mother later swamped
with creeks from her eyes
I’d spend sleepless nights
cradling warm bodies
I knew one day
would not cradle me back
I knew one day I’d be impregnated with wrinkles
and peppered with ill-favored liver spots
but this did not scare me
like it should have
It only scared me that
my mother never talked about her mother
because after she’d gone
she hadn’t much to say
about a part of her
that would always be missing