No Recognition but Memory

I remember the last time I saw her, it was my face
     She didn’t remember.
She told me stories of my childhood, my job, my travel
     As if I were a stranger.
I sat caught between forgotten and remembered.
     Not knowing what to say.
Because that conversation that made her happy
     Made me feel like a spy.
What if a certain question could make her reveal something
     She would never say to my face?
Recognizing the subtle shift of responsibility
     From the time
She used to scold me for picking tomatoes
     Before they were ripe.
Leaving behind the times my many mistakes made her worry,
     I joined her misted travels.
Choosing my questions carefully, I played the happy stranger
     Taking time to listen.
Hearing stories of her grand-daughter, showed she remembered
     Me. If not my face.

9 thoughts on “No Recognition but Memory”

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