She lives in a time when her kids were young.
She doesn't know the surname of her daughter, now.

They could be sisters, and for all she knows, perhaps they are.
They have the same, glossy wet-paint eyes.

Who are you? She asks, and her mind drags her deeper yet.
Where's my Tom? But Tom, her love, is forty years dead.

Anna sighs and brews the tea, as her mother stares in horror at her own hands.
Whose hands are these? A reedy wail; the same question asked fresh each day.

Photo frames only confuse her. Who is that man by my side?
Anna replies with a stale, much used answer, It's your husband, mama, he's out walking the dog.

I have a dog? She asks, But then, where's Tom? And where's my baby Anna?
*Somewhere, mama, they're here somewhere. And they're waiting for you to find them.