You won’t remember this.
Sitting on my lap and laughing at
something only you understand,
your hands come up to my face as you
bounce up and down on my lap and then
gently lay your head on my aging chest.
You won’t remember how that made me feel.
I tell you that I love you, that you’re
precious and funny and smart and
one day when you grow up you’re
going to hold someone in your arms
the way I’m holding you in this moment.
But you won’t remember my words.
You’re just nine months old but your eyes
can tell a story with only the sound of a smile,
and when you fall asleep nestled against me,
life rewinds to another time and place
that others whom I held will also not remember.
Time doesn’t exist in moments like this.
So I’ll hold you quietly against me until you wake,
until they tell me it’s time for you to go,
and you’re lifted away, watching your arms reach
out to me again so that our fingers touch for the
briefest of moments in an instant embrace.
You won’t remember the day that two women separated by
ninety years held each other and laughed.
And sadly, as day turns into night,
neither will I.