I've learned softness, order, and the future of memory

I've learned to make things softer.

To warm the shower chair as the water heats

To warm the room with the fan and light

To drape the towel over the shower door

To take the broken arm first, then over and around

To tip the hairdryer upward instead of down

To use the tail of the comb under the iron

To spray and shield her eyes while she covers her ears

To listen, nod, question, encouraging recollection and forgiveness.

I've learned the order of things.

That we'll need the toothpaste first and then

the cup and cloth; and all that before the face cream

and palette knife for the base before the brush and blush

That we can't forget the spray for the heat and mousse 

before the short strands curlish around the brush to dry

Oh my, I've forgotten the treats to send the dog to lay

beside the toilet with the tower and handles and I squeeze

by the folding chair to dry the other side and tame the cow's

licks curiously placed, to curl this way and that just so

That the hair spray has to be first and last between the teasing

and smoothing. 

That some things are lovely even in difficult progressions.

I've remembered things and so has she. 

Before she wobbles with her cane to the living room, 

we'll dab the perfume grandma used. She'd told me once

that if we were lost, we could find each other again because

we both smelled of Shalamar. And mom remembers things 

too, from my past and hers, and ours together and separate

knowing the history and the future of memory, life, and next.