the forgetful

my grandmother’s stomach sinks every time her husband has a name, a memory, what he had for lunch on the tip of his tongue. never says it. old enough to have thoughts slip through his fingers. like the sand of the michigan lake that he and i visited years ago i kiss him on his bald spot again, always, as he sits in his lazy boy. He trembles to asks me who i am it’s me, nickie. he tells me i look like just like his wife when they met. says i can’t be nickie shakes his head and he places his hand at a height i used to be, just above his waist. no, grandpa, i’m a little older than that old enough to understand that from here on out I will just be a sepia tone photo from 1952, just a reincarnation of his young wife. he forgets the alphabet gets silent half way through, stares forward with a fading shine and asks for my grandmother, who laughs at his jokes, she has heard them all before, and her laughter will eventually turn to a quiet sob. exhaustedly in love, but in love nonetheless. the gleam in her eyes painfully watches his eyes dull. she old enough to understand her husband is slowly walking away while sitting in a lazy boy.