Half-Forgotten

Sat, 03/13/2021 - 15:17 -- Selz

  Her aged hands are rubbery, full of brown specks of wisdom—
A holy entity formed of political hatred and troubling nostalgia,
Undying, yet rotting slowly.
She talks about half-forgotten memories that can still be faintly seen,
If not by her, perhaps by me,
And she takes my wet coat as I enter her house, lighting my cigarettes as she mumbles
While receiving uncertain nods as an acceptable answer.

  She shines in her own way,
Her own decaying way,
Always remembering, even when she fails to remember,
And she tells me that she's been having trouble remembering for some time now.
It started with names and places, dates and events,
But now she sometimes questions my identity, and asks me to kindly leave—I do so, forgotten on cue, remembered at some later point;
There are no apologies, for there are no moments to apologize for.

  Her essence has started to forget itself, but emotions are powerful,
Pouring out of her with a youthful cadence that challenges my own.
Her eyes gaze at moments, seemingly random;
The 1970s were a hard time, she says. There was order, she says, but there was death. And then, order left along with death,
Leaving too much room for political pamphlets & heartbreaking speeches. She can't remember them, of course, but she's still heartbroken.

  With whom does she share her uncertainty? Will she share it with me?
Will I see more than her? Will I outlive her daughters?
Questions roam, no answers come—she doesn't remember neither.
Her mundane shaking is heartwarming in a vulgarly profound, hidden way; not all eyes look at her, but she makes sure she's seen,
Whatever it may take: to shout, to break, to cry, to unmake.

  Worry not, hearts of envy, minds of spite,
She doesn't name you at all, nor does she care to try. The names she pronounces contain obsolete meanings—
Sadly, she still pronounces them too much, and neighbors often stare, scared, with nowhere to hide from her destructive speech that may even reach them, vainly hidden behind curtains.

  When I leave her house, she helps me put my coat back on. I don't need help, myself, but she feels better about her solitude that way.
She forgets that she has been forgotten,
And I have to reassure her:
"You've been forgotten,
Justine's daughter,
But you can still live forever, half-remembered, in my forgetfulness."

2021.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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