Memory breathes a little too slowly,

she sits in her chair,

fitted in a light blue gown,

and her movements are somehow stilted.

Memory breathes a little unsteady,

and she croaks out

A story about kick the can,

or some other children’s game.

Memory breathes and her eyes are tired,

She’s staring at me,

And I come closer,

Her voice is softer.

Memory breathes and her grip softens,

Her blue, veiny hands

Against my dark, young arms,

She’s letting go.

Memory breathes and I listen,

She’s stopped talking,

But the conversation lasts

Old and new, silence.

Memory breathes in,

and Death breathes out.