The ages turn,
burn through her worn fingers,
each bottom corner slightly stained
from her tarred finger.
She unfolds a few edges
of her life like origami,
insistent to relearn how each fold
shaped the whole.
I read to her her words
about The Great Depression,
WWII then restoration;
civil rights and gender oppression;
progression then regression.
She sometimes points
to a yellowed photo,
a fold she thinks
she remembers.
But her head just shakes
as she buries her eyes
back into the ages,
the pages
of her life.
