I will grow old, and you’ll forget my name.
I will roll up my socks past my ankles.
I will cut my hair short like a lady.
I will wear my skirts much longer and thick.
I will wear pearls, perhaps, or maybe just skin.
I will have children.
They will spit their words and joy all over me,
And I will smile and feel well.
I will wake up every morning with the sun in my bed.
I will perhaps put on coffee, maybe tea,
Maybe boil water for my concentrated drinking
To avoid diseases and pain,
But maybe I will be accustomed when I am old,
But maybe it will not matter so much.
I will walk to the rooms, down the halls,
Call the names, smooth the hair, tie the shoes,
Clean the floors, paint the walls,
And feed the children their bountiful meals.
I will look at the sky and the sun will be warm.
Sometimes it will rain, but maybe it won’t.

Not much has been decided,
But you will forget.
I will forget.
I will remember these words,
And perhaps I will remember your name,
But perhaps it will no longer matter.
Perhaps you will be with the sun in my bed,
But maybe it’s only company will be
The shoeless, sockless feet of youth
Covered to her eyes with blankets,
Afraid of the wind on the shutters at night.
Perhaps, I will be lonely,
But mostly I will not.
I might remember your name,
But perhaps it will no longer matter,
And I will never be too lonely
With the sun and wind and youth.

July 15, 2007