by Mara M., 16
My mom says your body
Took its last breath when I was young,
And if it weren’t for the
Boxes of photographs
And presents that she says you
Gave me on my birthday
I wouldn’t have even remembered that you
Were once around me.
That your fingerprints were once
Smudged on my kitchen table
Or that you once breathed the air of the
Same earth I live on now.
My memories of you don’t exist in my head.
They hang on the walls and
Hide in the pancakes
My mom says you always fed her in the morning.
And it saddens me how unfamiliar you look
Through the picture frame
With your arms wrapped around my small body,
Probably feeling so warm,
Probably calling me granddaughter,
Not knowing that I will never be able to remember
Your smiling face on my own.
Downingtown, Pennsylvania
Bridge Ink 