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She lifts her head and blinks
seeing no one she remembers.

We are visiting,
straining lumps of silence through encouraging smiles.
Clouds revolve behind rheumy eyes.

Workers glide through the retirement home
tending to the restless,
the thoughts of dream-talkers are swept and dusted.

She struggles to peer over us.
The window behind our chairs
is milky with un-wiped memories.

“They’ve built new shops over there,”
she says waving toward nowhere in particular.
“Buses pass right by here now.”

The sparrows no longer interest her
and there are no nearby shops.
“They turn the lights on too early,”
she grumbles.

An aged cat meanders into the room.
I lift it up,
its stiff legs paddling weakly in the air.

She looks at us,
a cataract of perception creaks open.

"They call it smoky," she says
"but it don't smoke."

We all laugh, relieved
to see her back again -
for a while.

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