Recall waves bye
like a tired baby,
confusion puckering,
the right words already asleep,
unintelligible taking over.
No one seems to know why.

Maybe it’s the surgeries.
Maybe it’s the age.
Maybe it’s the strict stride
of burdensome time,
the hobble of gray matter
trying to keep up,
child reverting to crawling,
attempting to cruise,
only to fall on its bottom.

Or maybe it’s just how babies are,
crying when something leaves,
the favored blanket
that fell behind the couch.
If you can’t see it,
is it there?
If you can’t speak it,
was it ever?

Better to be prepared.
Assume it’s gone
and mourn.
If you’re lucky,
someone will help
you retrieve it.

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