My mother and her mother
in the living room, surrounded
by the textures and patterns
of their lives, which, eventually,
disintegrate to dust, scattered by
the four winds. One can almost
feel the velvety sofa, crocheted
threads of the piano scarf,
faded plaid of Mom’s shirt,
and the rough parchment of
my grandmother’s elbows.
There is a future for them—
much of it isn’t kind—
but in this moment, there
is the softness of a dog’s belly and
the comfort of a fake leopard blanket
wrapped around the dreams.
Textures