She lost all her memory
in drops of
misplaced keys
forgotten bills
a disconnected phone.
Her makeup grew heavy.
Pristine eyeliner,
now charcoal cakes
stacked on summer tan base,
claret jacket, mauve sweater out of season.
“You’ll need to wrap your neck now that it’s starting to turn cold, dear.”
As we inch into April.
Drops begin to trickle,
relentless beats on the shower curtain
of cortex.
Grandchildren’s names rearrage,
heels transition to sensible pumps,
that stumble.
Wrists bruise,
knees buckle,
her gait creeks.
The trickle seeps to stream.
Days erase
Seasons meld
Years merge in
A grey wash
of sleepy rain.

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