Originally published in Prairie Margins, the national undergraduate literary magazine at Bowling Green State University. This poem was accepted for the magazine’s 2021 issue, which was released in 2022. There is not an online version at this time.

My memories of childhood are blurred, at best. They wear a robe
Of thick dust: hazy images, misremembered dialogue over morning coffee.
Sometimes it is the impression of a life that takes up residence in my mind
More than the life itself. Myself, my sister, my dad, my mom:
They are the familiar building blocks upon which I swear not to forget,
And yet – in front of me lies a lesson in the brain’s inevitable melt. I think of grandma.

Once upon a time, Saturday morning brought with it the promise of seeing grandma,
A drive out into the country pulling us up, up the mountain, to her house robed
In the clear light of midday. The place my dad grew up, ground he could not forget
Like his own name. We would pull up to a late breakfast and the steady drip of coffee
In the pot. As a child, seeing my dad become that child again, a son to his mom,
Made memories of those days that glow and warm; their pulse is what’s left in my mind. 

When things first began to change, we tried to pay them no mind, 
But there was a sense that the ground was shifting beneath grandma’s
Slippered feet. We moved in worried glances. Me to dad. Dad to mom.
Mom back to grandma – applying her nurse’s intuition to the tattering robe
That could barely hide a growing dishevelment, a far-off look. Her coffee
Grew cold in her hand. I would try to shake the feeling, but it was hard to forget.

It was little things in conversation: mid-sentence, she would forget
And ask me the same questions three times in a row. She didn’t notice or mind
The holes eating their way through her memory; she just asked if I wanted more coffee
(Again). Then she would be surprised at our visits, until one of us asked, Grandma,
What day do you think it is? Silence. She’d stick her hands in the pockets of her robe
And sit down in her recliner while dad knit his brows. Sighed. Glanced at mom. 

Then, one day, my dad made the decision he’d been dreading: Mom,
You can’t live alone anymore. The hammer came down as my suitcase. She often forgot
I was staying for more than a day, but she was too proud to admit it, so she’d robe
Her face in a false memory. The days would swing solely on her mind’s
Disposition – no, I don’t need pills. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. But Grandma, 
You don’t even remember to shower (I would cry). A head shake, another sip of coffee.

My parents came up on weekends to relieve me. I made sure breakfast was ready and coffee
Dripped in the pot. When I had to move back to school, we decided that my mom
Would take my place. It made more sense anyway, her being a natural caretaker. Grandma
Hollered on behalf of her independence. On the bright side, she would always forget
When we argued. I could cry in front of her, and my tears would slip like sand from her mind.
She would wake up in the morning, delighted to see me, and decide to change out of her robe. 

Now, my parents have both moved in with grandma, so my dad makes the coffee
In the mornings. She shuffles around in her robe making small talk with mom.
One day, she will have nothing left to forget, and the weight of memory will be fully mine.