There is a softness to memory
that doesn’t exist in the world.
Clouds that come down at night
cling to the gray walls, the gray stones,
the gray hairs,
but they—wrapped in yesterdays—
do not feel the chill.
The crackling fires of other years burn.
Innumerable pots of tea warm the inside,
as the gray hairs talk each day of childhood:
the days of First Communion, birthdays,
the single Christmas present,
ripe berries eaten with stained fingers.

The clouds come down
and linger late into the morning.
They seep into gray alleyways,
wetting the wrought iron fences,
misting the windows of the old homes,
while the old dream of mother’s face,
father’s call.
A shadowy form beside the bed
nudges them gently.

One day they awaken to the dampness,
to a world that has grown harsh.
There is no haste in rising now,
so they turn their backs to the world.
When they do rise,
the light is out of their eyes;
they do not tell the old tales;
the tea grows cold in their cups.
They look up and see mama’s face,
hear father’s call,
and they smile and talk and gesture.
To a dear daughter, they may say,
“You don’t see them, do you?”

If you are very fortunate,
they tell you goodbye
before they go.