Remember Me, Remember Me Not

Born as a sponge, absorbed mama's and dada's love.

Formed friendships and *hush* *hush* crushes.

Grandma held me, as a little one.

Once I turned seventeen, wore skinny jeans,

she no longer remembered me

or recipes.

My favorite, banana creme.

Her home became only a place to stay.

Family pictures were only decor on walls to fill empty space.

Family, so-called-strangers, let themselves inside,

to see Grandma’s mind, and Grandma tried

to remember.

Who were they?

Blank.

Unsafe. She was afraid.

My dad’s heartache grew

as he held the love his mother gave,

the rare moments she remembered his face.

After a while,

Grandma moved to a Senior Living’s room.

Dazed and confused.

But there were happy days,

puzzles, games, and new friends every day.

Once in a while,

she would recall, wake up and recognize she’s not home.

Not at all.

She's ask:

Where was the chair, I held grandchildren in?

What happened to flower beds, I planted colors in?

When she remembered.

She’d become upset.

Maybe then, she chose to forget.

I looked into my mother’s eyes,

and questioned her time.

By the end of life

will she remember being so proud

I won the spelling bee?

Or remember the time

I made her cry

crashing a car into a stop sign?

Sometimes…

I wish I had no roots

to fly away in a hot air balloon

or set sail in every sea,

unattached and unafraid

which direction the windbreaks.

But I know,

there would be no love

if nothing was at stake.

It was my grandma

that helped me to see what a home means, and how important it can be.

so I choose to live and love each moment unconditionally.

To cherish all of our memories.