They say an elephant never forgets
but I am an elephant losing her mind
which means of course
forgetting
which is the curse of old aging.
Memory is where
the colors of childhood
still glow with crystalline bright
green
of photosynthesis
blue
of sky
red
of bloody Christmases.
(mom chased daddy with the KNIFE)
Colors now fade
to gray gray gray
(the tones of my hair)
or black
which shades
my predawn musings.
And do smells really remind me of home?
Of grandma’s applesauce simmering on the stove?
Of Tammalee’s lemon meringue?
Of fresh bagels, ripe peaches,
farmer cheese fresh from the dairy
arriving under my father’s arm wrapped in
brown waxy paper?
Now my husband––the family chef—
is losing his taste
and his smell—woe to me—
and where are his keys?
Can he sense the delicious freshness
of our baby-powdered grandbaby boy?
The elephant can’t lie in the cave of the willow’s branches
she struggles to rise
but feels the earth quaking
through her footpads.
Now my footpads need protection from the hard ground.
Back then I ran over pebbled roads to make
my soles hard so I might
tiptoe through the forest
in stealthy silent hide-and-seek.
The elephant smashes the tree branches
as she eats them,
padding steadily on grand and silent feet.