Her Wrinkles Had Wisdom

I used to walk by her room,
The woman from whose womb
I’m twice removed,
Up until 102,
And hear her whisper “George…”
Who had been gone for 30 years.
And I’d stay standing to hear her pretend he wasn’t.
She didn’t believe in praying to the dead,
It was a reminder to know he ever existed,
And a wishing he still did, in an earthly sense.

Now she’s the way he is.
Maybe they’re together in that space between,
And not just at Arlington,
Telling 30 years of where they’ve been,
Catching up on each other’s whisperings
And as they glorify,
Changing into different skin,
They turn out wrinkles like pockets
And instead of loose change
Pull out wisdom.