I did not regard you as old,
nor elderly, as you softly forgot
the names of your children.
Memory's sharp edges dulled against
the press of years in your skull, moments jostling
for clarity, your eyes clouding over from time
Before forgetting, I have no offer
but one memory in the press of years
I am gathering; standing at the sink,
there is a speck between your teeth
when you smile, your eyes looking
like the round pit of an avocado trapped
in the drain after dinner, dishwater and debris
clouding the sheen of organic promise
with a wash of tarnished silver linings.
In these moments, when you look through us,
I am sure there are times that you are revisiting.
I am sure there are fossils beneath your skin.