Handing her the teeth for her smile every morning,
Giving her the windows for her eyes
And tucking the earpieces behind her ears like curtains.
Arranging in the grey wheelchair
Limbs that are every day unnoticably lighter
As muscles atrophy and fat taken out of reserve
To feed what that no longer desires food.
Saying the words again
That she no longer recognizes-
Good morning. Want some tea? Here’s a blanket,
Gramma. No longer her name,
Just two syllables she hears us shape with our lips.
Telling her the words for her crossword
To fill in the blanks she leaves,
The blanks for nouns she fills with adjectives,
The blanks she fills with words she just created,
Long blanks when she doesn’t speak for hours.
Watching her lights dimming
In this unstoppable mist,
Until in this life only the blue foglights
Of music can make her smile.