In the care home she hasn’t chosen
elbow on armrest, hand propping head
my grandmother half-opens her eyes
like a torpid, sun-drugged cat
then placidly veils them again

When awake, she’ll fixate on the family photos
– dead husband, wrinkling children –
perpetually placed before her,
earnest offerings bribing for recognition,
at times intimately gabbling their stories
almost as if she’s known them

Her small hand entrusted to mine
her invention of walking already old hat
my daughter croons catchy gibberish
lilting, self-absorbed repetitions
like ancestral chants of a vanished race

I often bring the two together
despite there being no chance
they’ll speak to each other, ever

Lauro Palomba has taught ESL and done stints as a freelance journalist and speechwriter.