It Seems You Have Forgotten Me
It seems you have forgotten me,
and I toil each day with your memory
coiled deep in my body as you once were,
a gentle spark leaning toward a moving.
I should have known
when you walked early,
it might also be far,
yet I never dreamed it would be away.
I remember, your small small hand
curled around my finger;
how you stumbled room to room
looking for something I could not fathom.
I remember your dark hair,
foamy with shampoo,
how you laughed when I spiked
and curled and rinsed it in the tub.
I remember dresses and boots
and coats in every size and color,
summer shorts and pants
and pleasure in your eyes,
I remember, gifts and giving,
how, when you finally had real money
you bought me a birthstone ring,
rubies spiraling the finger you once grasped.
Everything you are echoes through
the blood we share
your gentleness, indignation, caring,
always always, always your red and robust laughter.
I am walking, motherless now,
toward another birthday
anxious for your voice or presence, any
indication that you have not forgotten me!