We haven’t spoken in years.
My father says her memory is
shrinking. After five minutes
she’s unsure what conversation
she’s parachuted into. She can’t
remember what she went down
the mayonnaise aisle for. It softens
me and I wonder: what crumbles
first, the hard times or the soft?
Has she lost her version of why
I left? Of when she slapped me
in the eye? Of her darkly whis-
pering, “I wish I could hurt
you more.”
Tonight I visit her in dream,
watching without her knowing.
This time I see through
my version of things.
As she’s going, I want to
see her more clearly. The only
time I might get close to her
is when she no longer
remembers who I am.
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