I was eight, playing with legos
as drawers and cabinets open and closed
to the rhythm of my lungs while they expand
I sat- unbothered-
the massive friction of two
rocks send waves.
It can terrify those not used to
Or if you’re pushed into the middle
of the break, where rock no longer
the heat sprouts
through cracks reaching out
like branches to the sky.
onto dry earth
comfortable playing with legos,
but not with packing eight years
into a suitcase with hello kitty tags.
But fingernails clipping onto barren dirt
is no match for mother’s force
I know I’ll have to let go
It has been 10 years
since I’ve seen them.
Hands still worn but more tender.
Life has found a way to bury memories
The way I’ve seen others bury
I wonder if they’d blame me
for the language that evaporated
from my pink tongue.
The way I’d hesitate over phone calls
from foreign vowel sounds.
Or for late letters
as envelopes wedged
themselves between weeks of school work.
Do they peer along cracks too?
Imagine if they jammed
Their head far enough
Into it that they’d see me –
the eight-year-old playing legos
I am only so much like when I was eight
Will they always remember what their
granddaughter looks like?
Before dementia makes home
in the spot right between their brown eyes
to take hold of memories of hands,
freckled with birthmarks, guiding
my own to form dumplings
to steam. Watch memories condense
into liquid and roll down glass
Life finds ways to bury memories
the way I’ve seen others bury