Grandmother

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them

I came out from shaving
after a late shower
my cheeks dry and warm
new without whiskers to decorate them–
knowing that she could not remember,
that she would not know why I was there,
knowing that she would recognize me,
but not be able to know why

I was standing there with a towel around my waist
a thousand miles from home
pondering if mayonnaise or mustard
would be best with the roast beef
that I was thinking of putting on her sandwich
for lunch
wondering if she would remember which she preferred
wondering if she would remember that she liked two pickles.

I came out from shaving after late shower
my cheeks were dry and warm, new without whiskers
to decorate them
sleek without growth
like her mind
all the branches there, unbroken,
but without the lights to hang on the tree
without the tinsel to celebrate
a holiday with a name she knows,
but with grandchildren she doesn’t, and never will.

I came out from shaving after a late shower
and knew when I looked into her eyes
that I could never be a child again
and never wanted to grow old.