Wise, long wrinkles reach the ends of drenched skin
telling the tale of a lost youth
It's dotted moles
plastered along the outline of her face
like dried molded paint across the canvas slide
Her portrait stands in the empty living room
covered with the grease of burned out charcoal
The smell of freshly baked dough lingers through the kitchen
and in the oven,
remains her last batch of English muffins
Its colorless lights trapped inside flashes a dull smile
as it flickers back to the evening sun
Senile and novel
the dust dances with the sun set between the stained window glass
waiting to be freed from the voracious task of standing still
And with a nudge of a finger,
the window opens
liberating the obsolete remains my grandmother forgot to take
I look out the window
with the company of dusk grey clouds
and I try to remember her face
as I sit down on the same empty bed
awaiting the departure of her oat-budded scent
