1
She wears Chanel No. 5
even to the grocery store,
every hair always sprayed in place,
green eyes leaping, taking in every face, every color, every sale at Bloomingdale’s.
Engagement ring forever on her right hand,
on her left her wedding ring,
a butterfly necklace draped between distinct collar bones.
2
You walked into the living room with Grandpa
leaving perfume in the airtrail behind you
and you waiting for me to bound down the stairs
in a gust of overalls and tangled hair,
only to place me down and explain
that a lady crosses her legs when she sits
and never, under any circumstances, wants to make mud pies.
You’d trap me indoors, arranging books upon my head
demanding that I walk in circles
and down the stairs and back again. You thought
it important that I knew
to use the correct fork for salad
and which black dress to wear to a cocktail party.
You called me
“my little lady” after
my etiquette lessons.
You knew my birthday, clothing size, favorite color, current grade
without a second thought or flutter of curled lashes.
You were delighted to learn
that I inherited your love of shoes.
3
Her once vibrant green eyes
cataracted with years of use
hair now unruly
wild and wavy
she wears only rings, forgetting
her favorite butterfly necklace
lipstick on teeth, nails short and broken
no more Chanel No. 5
clothing never changes
”Janet,” she calls to me, “pull back your hair.”
She asks for her brother
who died in
she looks for
where she once lived forgetting
that she has since moved to
Her eyes permanent question marks
not recalling her old couch in the living room
or the faces in the pictures on the walls
or the butterfly necklace lying on her dresser
or my face.
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