Maman tells me the things she misses;
Her eyes older than the skin that holds them
And hands weathered from life, not rain.
Glasses firmly balanced on the nose,
She says it seems like the little things at first,
Marbles and playing cards, a stick of gum,
But it builds on itself like calcite and plaque
Until virtue and minds waltz off the edge
Of finely tuned memory echoing in the abyss.
And the harshest losses we choose to forget,
The abysmal lost in the forgotten
And found only in sold out memories,
Like the lonely ring in the middle
Of a silent, empty room
While fallen trees quietly ponder
If anyone waits at the other end of the line.